


High Tide

by Novels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, I really suck at summaries, M/M, Slow Build, a lot of misunderstanding, dripping irony and sarcasm here and there, mention of goldfish, mention of graphic violence in a sub-plotline, s2 and s3, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:18:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novels/pseuds/Novels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is just a love story, or is it? Love is such a big word, after all.<br/>Let's just say it is a story about two people caring for each other and struggling to admit it.<br/>Greg comes back from Baskerville and has a chat with Mycroft. That's where it begins.<br/>The rest is history. Or it will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, let's get this started.  
> First of all, there aren't enough words to thank my beta, [Linnet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet), for what she's done -and is still doing- for this story and for me. It would be a very different story without her constant help and support, and I would be a far worse writer, at least in English, hadn't she been constantly calling me out on my silly mistakes.  
> She is a gifted writer and a wonderful human being; please, do cover her with flowers and offerings, which in slang are also known as kudos and comments.
> 
> Moving on, a small warning: since I was obsessing over the timeline of the episodes, I ended up messing it up royally. Let's just say that I was so sure the Fall was in 2012 that I simply assumed Sherlock returned after sixteen months. When I noticed my mistake, the plot had already been completed, so I simply decided to, ahem, move everything before the Fall to a year later than the canon. Sorry about that, guys. If you don't pay too much attention you shouldn't even notice the difference.  
> Nothing else changed in my references to the canon. I've tried to be as canon compliant as possible.
> 
> Finally, the story is already finished. The last few chapters are still being betaed, but that shouldn't be a problem.  
> I am aiming at posting twice a week, but I can't assure life won't get in the way.  
> That's it.  
> Enjoy!

Greg stepped into the shower with a relieved sigh and stood under the spray of water for a few heavenly moments, letting the dirt of the journey flow away through the drain. He rolled his shoulders and heard a vaguely upsetting crack. Nothing new, he considered, some days he felt like he had the body of an eighty-year-old. He had just grabbed his shampoo when his mobile went off. Greg muttered a curse, put down the bottle and felt around for his phone from behind the shower curtain, finally hitting it with his wet hand and making it fly to the floor with a loud thud.  
Greg swore out loud, stepped out of the shower and picked up the mobile, managing to answer on the seventh ring.

‘Lestrade,’ he said, slightly breathily.

'Detective Inspector, I am truly sorry to disturb you, but a matter of national security has arisen. Your help is needed.'

Greg swallowed a groan, reached out for the shower tap and turned it off.

'What has Sherlock done this time?' he asked as he reached for a towel and wrapped himself in it, starting to dry himself roughly.

'My brother has just broken into a top secret military base, Detective Inspector. I would be most grateful if you would join him and stop this absurd situation from degenerating completely.'

Greg padded into his bedroom, opening one of the drawers and fetching clean underwear and a pair of socks.

'Where is he?'

Mycroft hesitated for a fraction of second.

'He's in Dartmoor.'

'Dartmoor?’ Greg raised an eyebrow. ‘What the hell is your brother doing there?'

The sigh on the other end of the line was unmistakable.

'If only I knew, Detective Inspector. If only I knew. I suspect that it has something to do with that hound, but I am still waiting for a detailed report from my collaborators. Will you go?'

Greg eyed the suitcase resting on the floor, still full of dirty clothes from his holiday in Spain. He had been home for less than an hour. So much for the relaxing holiday, he thought resignedly. However, he had to admit the prospect of spending time with Sherlock and John was better than staying in his new flat, alone except for his dark thoughts.

'Yeah, I'll go. And I suppose I'll have to keep you informed.' The elder Holmes bossed him around so much that he had unconsciously formed a working protocol in his mind. Greg wondered if he shouldn’t feel a bit pathetic.

'As always, it would be most appreciated. Thank you, Detective Inspector. A car will be waiting downstairs within fifteen minutes.' The line went dead before Greg could reply, and he was left with nothing else to do but dress, pack some clean clothes, and wait for the car to fetch him.

* * *

  
_3 days later_

Greg got in the car and closed the door with a loud thump that echoed briefly against the soundproof walls of the vehicle.

To hell, he thought, he had seen a man blown up less that ten hours before and he didn't have the strength to behave properly; he just wanted to go back to London as soon as possible. Sprawled against the leather seat with his eyes closed, Lestrade thought of his flat with the same desire and longing as a nerd in a foreign city without wi-fi would do of a cybercafé. He couldn’t wait to collapse against his new bed and crawl under his duvet to sleep through the entire duration of the two days off he had left.

However, that would have to wait. He was fairly certain he had a meeting to attend to first.

'Where are you going to take me this time?' he asked the driver after about half an hour of complete silence, wondering where Mycroft had arranged their meeting this time. He sincerely hoped it was a comfortable, warm place and not some wretched boathouse on the Thames. It would not be such a surprise after the abandoned warehouse and the old, disused greenhouse in Hyde Park.

'I'm taking you home, sir,' the man replied briefly, without looking away from the road.

Greg raised his eyebrows, surprised.

Evidently, the older Holmes had better things to do than listen to his report. Well, he wasn't going to start complaining. Not in the least.

Greg leaned back against the leather seat, slightly more relaxed, and let himself enjoy the landscape flowing past his eyes. Although he missed London after having been away for more than two weeks, he couldn't deny the amazing beauty of the green hills covered with mist. It was a ghostly scene, but very striking nonetheless.

Lulled by the smooth noise and warmth of the car, Greg dozed off for a couple of hours. He woke up when they reached the suburbs of London and the traffic started slowing, as usual. He stared silently at the sun disappearing behind the tall buildings and yawned helplessly, the short nap not nearly enough for him to catch up on lost sleep after the night he had had.

Looking at the familiar streets flowing under his eyes, Greg started feeling a bit better. Ibiza had been beautiful, but it hadn't really felt like the right place to be.  
Well, not that his new flat felt absolutely right, either. It was alright, as far as flats went, but it was like an empty shell; nothing like his old house. Greg was firmly trying to convince himself it was only a matter of getting used to it.

He brushed his left thumb on his finger, unconsciously reaching for his wedding ring to fiddle with it as he used to do when he was tense or upset, and felt a little pang of panic as he sensed bare skin where the golden band should have been. It took him a few seconds to realize that he hadn’t lost it, since the ring was currently buried under a stack of old shirts in the last drawer of his new bedroom.

That was another thing that didn't feel right, and Greg was trying to convince himself it was only a matter of getting used to it, too.

He was also failing miserably at it.

He shook his head as the car pulled to a stop in front of his flat and got out rather clumsily, his body still half-asleep after a three and a half hour journey. He grabbed the small suitcase the driver was holding out for him and thanked him with a nod, then opened the door and took the stairs to the second-floor flat he had moved into just a few weeks before, after his divorce had been finalised.

He stood on the doorstep fumbling with the keys, finally picking the right one. Greg turned it into the keyhole and immediately knew something was wrong.  
He always double-locked the door on his way out, an old habit he had from his years at the university, yet with a single turn the door had opened. Someone had been in his flat.

His senses alert, he cracked the door open and let go of the handle very slowly, sliding into the flat as silently as possible. The light in the kitchen was turned on and Greg tiptoed down the hall, stopping just before he could be seen from inside the room.

'Do come in, Detective Inspector,' said a familiar voice from the kitchen. 'I'd rather not waste all day waiting for you to decide if to enter your own kitchen or not .'

Greg let out a relieved sigh, then tensed up again and cursed inwardly. He stepped into the room and glared at Mycroft Holmes, who was sitting on one of the stools at the counter looking infuriatingly at ease and completely, utterly bored.

'I'd tell you to make yourself at home, but I gather you've already seen to it,' said Greg, tossing his bag in a corner of the room and hanging his coat to the backrest of a chair. 'What brings you here, Mr. Holmes?'

Mycroft gestured towards a chair.

'I was hoping you could tell me exactly what happened in Dartmoor, Detective Inspector. I thought you'd appreciate not being dragged around London after a long journey and at this hour of the day.' He looked at him expectantly and Greg stared back, vaguely confused. Apparently, Mycroft Holmes had just admitted to doing him a courtesy. Greg wondered briefly if he should be worried by that, then decided he didn’t really care and nodded once, moving to the cabinets to fetch himself a glass of Scotch, gathering his thoughts. He silently poured a second glass and slid it along the counter towards Mycroft, then leaned against the drawers and looked at his guest.

'Your brother is such a mess,' he said finally, after taking a sip and putting down the glass. 'He poisoned John - well, tried to - and then he locked him in a lab and made him believe that that hound was in the room with him. I don't understand how John hasn’t murdered him yet.' He shook his head in disbelief. 'Anyway, he solved the case. That damned scientist stepped on a mine, so there won’t be a trial to worry about, and you had already fixed everything with Baskerville when I got there, so there wasn't that much for me to do. I talked with the local police; the hotel owners will be fined for having let the dog free at night, but that will be it for them. Oh, and of course I found out that your brother doesn't even know my first name.' Greg hoped the disappointment wasn’t too evident in his tone, but he doubted Mycroft had missed it. Not that Greg was that surprised by Sherlock's unawareness, but it still stung to realise how little he mattered to him. He unconsciously reached for his wedding ring with his thumb and stroked his annular a bit instead, looking absentmindedly at his hands.

The gesture didn't pass unnoticed by Mycroft.

'I can only apologize for my brother's lack of education. Nonetheless, I see that everything was sorted out - your marriage included.'

Greg stiffened and raised his head with a quick move, staring hard at Mycroft.

'And I see that's none of your business, Holmes.' It came out a lot more aggressive and harsh than Greg had intended it to, and he regretted the tone of his words the second he uttered them.

Mycroft looked taken aback for an infinitesimal fraction of second before he regained his usual emotionless expression.

'Of course it is not; my apologies, Detective Inspector,' he said, rising from the stool and fetching his umbrella from where it laid against the wall. 'I suppose it's time for me to leave; I would not want to disturb you further.'

Greg ran a hand through his hair.

'Listen, I'm sorry. It's just that it is still a delicate matter. It was-- it is not easy to accept it.' He stared down at his bare finger. Mycroft nodded.

'I've been indelicate. However, you were the one who put an end to it.' It wasn't a question, and Greg raised an eyebrow.

'Otherwise, you would have kept the ring.'

Greg smiled in acknowledgment. It was not that difficult a deduction.

'You're right; it was my choice, but Kate didn't keep her ring either. I suppose she was just relieved that it was over without having to put a stop to it herself.'

Mycroft looked at him with a pensive gaze, as if he was assessing him.

'As they say, Detective Inspector, her loss.'

Greg let out a brief, derisive noise, full of both self-loathing and amusement.

'Well, she's not the one who ended up alone, is she?'

Mycroft crooked an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of superiority and disagreement.

'Being alone is not always a disadvantage.'

'You can’t really believe that.' Lestrade couldn’t help staring at him skeptically, and maybe with a pinch of pity. Mycroft stared back at him blankly.

'Why not? Caring is usually a person's greatest weakness. Being alone can only play to your advantage.'

'But it does not when you long for company all the time.’ Greg shook his head. ‘Not all of us can stand a life in solitude, Mr. Holmes.'

Mycroft cocked his head to one side, curling his lips briefly.

'Well, I suppose that is true,' he said, reaching for his pocket clock and checking the time. 'I am afraid I must be going, Detective Inspector. If anything happens to Sherlock, you know how to reach me. Thank you for your collaboration. It was much appreciated.'

Greg nodded briefly and looked at him as he left the room. A few seconds later, the front door clicked shut and Greg knew that he was alone once again.

He stared blankly at the two glasses on the counter. One was still untouched. That had been one hell of a strange conversation, but truth be told, one could never know what to expect from a Holmes. With a sigh, he downed what was left in his glass and put it in the sink, then fetched his suitcase and started unpacking. He might as well get started with the laundry, he thought, before he ran out of clean pants.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to everyone who's read and left a sign of his or her passage so far, and of course, a gigantic thank you to my beta, Linnet.  
> Enjoy the new chapter.

The second time it happened, Greg was coming home from one of the weirdest cases he’d ever had to solve. It had involved a dead body in a flat on the second floor, a bunch of clueless people frantically researching methods to calm a wild elephant while they waited for the experts to arrive, and a few other details that Greg hoped to forget very quickly.

Greg hadn’t been surprised by the appearance of a team of non-descript men half an hour after the crime scene had been secured. What had surprised him was that they let him keep the case, interfering with the enquiries about the murder only marginally and taking care of everything else the dead man was involved in.

Greg suspected it had something to do with Sherlock being on the case, and particularly with Sherlock being on the case and in a foul mood.

Greg wasn’t completely sure why he had displayed such a cheerful and delightful attitude that day, but he suspected it had a lot to do with John storming out of the flat less than five minutes after they had got there and disappearing for the rest of the day.

After eight hours of uninterrupted insults and rants, Greg had pinned the detective against a wall, threatened to arrest him and to personally make sure he wouldn’t be released for at least two days, no matter what his brother tried to do, and demanded the solution to the case, if Sherlock had it. The detective had struggled for a few minutes against his deathly grip before giving up, spitting a half-choked answer through gritted teeth.

Greg had let him go after that, too tired to deal with Sherlock’s antics and too focused on closing the case as soon as he possibly could.

 

It was well past midnight when he finally signed the last document and dropped the file in the outgoing basket, switching off the lights behind himself and dragging himself to his flat. Lestrade didn’t even bother switching on the lights and simply walked into his living room, aiming to collapse on the sofa. The bedroom seemed really too far at that moment. He was so exhausted that he didn't even notice the man lying on it until he practically sat down on him.

'What the hell?' he screamed, jumping from the couch and reaching for the abat-jour on the coffee table, letting a soft light pervade the room and project long shadows against the walls.

Greg looked at the man sitting on his sofa and gaped. Mycroft was blinking rapidly, looking faintly surprised and unusually ruffled.

'Jesus Christ, Holmes!' said Lestrade. 'What the hell are you doing in my home at this time of night?'

Mycroft glanced at the clock on the wall, looking alarmingly taken aback for a fraction of second.

'I... my apologies, Detective Inspector,' he said slowly. 'It wasn't my intention to scare you.'

'The hell it was not!' rebutted Greg loudly, still trying to calm his frantic heartbeat.  

Mycroft winced and rubbed his eyes before he realized what he was doing and stopped in the middle of the movement.

'Wait,' said Greg, eyes widening as he put together the pieces. 'Did I wake you?'

Mycroft scowled, mostly to himself.

'Apparently so.'

'Oh, I'm sorry,' said Greg impulsively. 'Wait, no, I'm not sorry at all. Why the fuck were you taking a nap on my sofa at... quarter to one?'

'Don't be dense, Detective Inspector,' replied Mycroft, straightening his creased suit. 'I wasn't taking a nap on your sofa. I accidentally fell asleep while waiting for you to come back from work. This wouldn't have occurred if you hadn't been so late.'

Greg couldn’t help snorting. The entire situation was borderline ridiculous.

'Oh, of course, it has to be my fault. Well, I'm terribly sorry for being late to a meeting I didn't know I had. Now, if you could just get on with whatever you wanted from me so that I can finally collapse on my bed and sleep for twenty hours straight, it would be most appreciated.'

Mycroft rose from the sofa, icy demeanour apparently back in place.

'I simply wanted to make sure Sherlock hadn't driven you mad once and for all, Detective Inspector. I monitored your last case and Sherlock has been remarkably worse than ever this week.'

Greg blinked once. Then twice. Then he realized he was gaping at the man in his living room. He barked out a startled short laugh.

'You.. you were checking on me? What's happening to you? Are you trying to con me into doing something awfully illegal?' he asked, truly disconcerted.

Mycroft scowled at him, almost outraged.

'Not at all, Detective inspector. I was merely making sure that my brother didn't finally succeed in alienating the only person who willingly provides him with cases, successfully keeping him distracted from other types of addiction.' He took his mobile out of his right pocket and tapped briefly on the screen. 'Can you assure me you will keep working with Sherlock, Detective Inspector?'

Greg stared at him for a long moment, then sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

'As much as I'd like to get rid of your brother's insufferable attitude, I am not going to keep him from my cases, as long as I need him. You know, you are not the only one who worries about him.'

Mycroft stared back with assessing eyes. Greg felt a bit as if he had just been X-rayed.

'No, apparently I am not,' he finally said. He recovered his black umbrella from the armrest of the sofa and hung it on his forearm. 'I'll be going, then. Good night, Detective Inspector.'

With a nod, he walked out of the flat without the faintest sound, leaving a very confused Detective Inspector behind him.

* * *

Mycroft walked down the stairs stiffly, holding onto the handrail and ignoring the ticking noise of his umbrella against the steps as he dragged it behind himself. His mind was still in the flat he had just left, analyzing and weighing up what had happened. He felt miserable. He hadn’t slept in almost three days - the first draft of operation Kingfisher had completely absorbed what little free time he had and now that he had finally completed it, his body was starting to give up, unable to keep up with his absurd working rhythm. Which was, incidentally, the main reason for him to have collapsed on Lestrade’s sofa. Mycroft groaned internally, rubbing his eyes as he stopped on the pavement to wait for his car.

He must have looked like a fool to the Detective Inspector. A ruffled fool. Mycroft ran his hand through his hair, flattening it the best he could and feeling slightly embarrassed. At least he hadn’t drooled over the sofa. Or he really hoped he hadn’t. That would have been downright humiliating, as if being caught taking a nap on someone else’s sofa wouldn’t be enough. Mycroft sighed heavily, leaning on his umbrella and moving his gaze toward the windows on the second floor.

A faint light highlighted a familiar silhouette staring at him and Mycroft looked away quickly, searching his car with his eyes.

He really needed to sleep, and so did the Detective Inspector. Mycroft had been honest when he had told him that he had merely been paying a short visit to ensure everything was fine between him and Sherlock, yet he hadn’t been completely honest. Sherlock was his top priority, of course, but he had decided to see Lestrade in person because he had felt the inexplicable urge to ensure the Detective was doing well on his own.

Unluckily, it appeared that wasn’t the case.  

Mycroft might have been slightly less observant than usual, what with him being woken up of a sudden and everything, but it didn’t take a Holmes to deduce that Lestrade was positively knackered and that his last case was the least important reason for that.

The Detective Inspector was not taking well his new status of single man in his mid forties and Mycroft thought he could understand why, at least in theory. Just because he had willingly decided not to engage in any sort of relationships apart from his family ones, that didn’t mean he couldn’t feel the pang of loneliness once and again.

The trick, he supposed, was not to ever indulge it - a thing that the D.I. wasn’t particularly good at. With a sigh, Mycroft made a mental note to keep an eye on him, just to be on the safe side, and stepped into the black car that had silently stopped in front of him.   
As he rested his head against the leather seat, Mycroft couldn’t avoid thinking that Lestrade had been the first person to see him waking up in years. It had been completely involuntary, but it had happened nevertheless. Something unfamiliar twisted in Mycroft’s guts and he opened his eyes, vaguely alarmed. It didn’t mean anything, he reminded himself. It didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter.

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, ducklings. Many thanks for kudoing (is that even a word?), commenting and bookmarking. Oh, and for reading, of course. Maybe I should have mentioned that first.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the first two chapters; they were a bit introductory, as this one is, but we are getting closer to the action. (By the way, did anyone get what the Kingfisher operation was about?)  
> Just bear with me for a bit longer; I would say you won't regret it, but, you know, I really think that's not something _I_ should say.  
>  As always, all my gratitude goes to my beta, [Linnet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet). She's a marvel and you all should get the chance to see that for yourselves.  
> That's it.  
> Enjoy chapter three!

Lestrade spotted the familiar police tape at the entry of a narrow alley and walked hastily toward his latest crime scene, bracing himself for what he was about to see. His soles squished and crackled as he trod on the thin layer of dirty snow that covered the pavement and he grimaced, tightening his scarf around his neck. He certainly didn’t like the snow in winter, but he utterly loathed it at the beginning of April.

Donovan was waiting for him beyond the line and he flashed his badge to the officer that was standing on guard of the perimeter before crossing it and moving towards the forensic team that was buzzing around a still lump on the pavement.

‘Do we have another one, Sally?’ he asked, sipping his first coffee of the day. Sally shrugged noncommittally.

‘The still have to turn him around, but it seems quite probable. The location and the position of the body fit the modus operandi.’

Greg nodded  and moved closer, taking a better look at the corpse.

The dead man was lying face down on the pavement, a red puddle spreading from under the body and staining what little snow was left in a sanguine shade. Sally was right, at first sight it matched the other two murders.

‘Who found him?’

‘It was an anonymous call, made from the telephone box at the end of the main street.’

Greg sighed and stared at the forensic team taking measurements and photographing what little evidence there was. If that truly was a third victim, Greg didn’t have much hope they would find anything they could use. He gave a sideway glance to Sally and sighed again, fishing out his mobile from his pocket to send a message to Sherlock and struggling to spell the words right with his frozen fingers.

He knew she wouldn’t like it, but with three victims in three days, he was not going to gamble another life for the sake of Sally’s mood.

Surprisingly, Sherlock answered back affirmatively only seconds later and Greg let out a relieved sigh, walking up to the leader of the forensic team to tell him not to move the corpse until Sherlock arrived.

He pointedly ignored the scolding gaze Sally gave him and used the time to go through what little he knew about the prior victims for the umpteenth time.

Two men in their early thirties, the first a sales assistant in a shoe shop and the second a banker. Both happily married. Both without criminal records. Friends and families universally agreed that they were nice, respectful people and that no-one would ever want to hurt any of them. The sales assistant was killed on his way home from a bowling match with some old friends, the banker from a business dinner. Neither of them had been drunk at the time of death.

They couldn’t find any connection between the two of them, anything in common at all. The murderer had left no traces on them, either, so that was a dead end, too.

Apparently, all they shared was the pitiful way they had died, alone in a dirty alley with a knife in their heart.

Greg’s thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock and John arriving and the crime scene. Sherlock spared him a sideways glance and moved swiftly to the corpse without a word, his magnifying lens already in his hand.   
John nodded in his direction before he joined the consulting detective.

'Time of death?'

John inspected the corpse, testing its rigidity and calculating mentally.

'I'd say between ten and eleven p.m.'

Sherlock nodded, sniffing the dead body, analyzing his hand.

'He was a nurse.'

‘What makes you say so?’ asked John, catching Lestrade’s clueless gaze.

Sherlock kept his eyes on the corpse and started pointing out what was obvious to him without the smallest scoffing remark. Greg stared at John, surprised, and the man shook his head slightly, as if to postpone any questions.

'Short nails, clean and well-trimmed, which indicates that his job required a high level of hygiene; strong muscles in his arms, so he frequently had to lift heavy weights - bodies. A slightly irritated mark on the back of his neck, where something quite heavy rested for several hours; not a necklace, something thicker, like a stethoscope; trainers on his feet, comfortable shoes, not elegant ones. He wasn't going home from a night out, he had just finished working. Time of death between ten and eleven p.m. and the only open structures in this part of the city at that time of night are St Bart’s and some pubs. The hospital is fifteen minutes from here, with a shift ending at ten; he could have been a waiter or a bartender, it matches the nails, heavy lifting and comfortable shoes, but they don’t usually shower after their shift and he still smells of soap - nurse it is. Which makes fifteen minutes for a shower and fifteen to get here, right on time to get killed. Neat.'

John narrowed his eyes and Sherlock, who had finally looked at the two men standing next to him, averted his eyes rapidly, focusing on the crime scene again.

‘Turn him around, will you?’ he said distractedly to Anderson. Lestrade nodded - all the evidence had already been collected - and Anderson and John turned around the body, revealing an evident wound in his chest.

‘John?’ asked Sherlock, gesturing vaguely towards the wound and waiting for the doctor to analyse it. John crouched and looked closely at the tear in the flesh, poking at it lightly and considering various factors.

‘It’s just a preliminary analysis, but the blade seems to have been inserted between the fifth and sixth left rib, pointing upwards. It punctured the heart, it possibly damaged a lung, too.’

Lestrade felt his stomach drop. Not that he wasn’t expecting it, but to have confirmation that they had another victim was not a relief at all. Sherlock nodded, crouching himself to look at the wound.

'The wound was inflicted from the bottom, but the victim couldn't have been standing, or his body would have probably fallen backwards. He was unbalanced, leaning forwards, probably crouching. But why? Why crouching in the middle of a dark alley?’ He rose and started pacing around the crime scene. ‘He might have seen something, stopped to pick it up, but who would do something like that if there was someone else in the alley with him? Unless the murderer was hidden somewhere close, but no, there is no place to hide here. So the murderer was in the alley with him. He must have looked innocuous, or the victim would have changed direction, and he had to be either walking in the opposite direction or before him, otherwise he would have stabbed him from behind. So the victim was aware he was not alone, he didn't feel threatened, he even got close... ah!'

Sherlock stopped and looked at the body lying on the pavement. 'He was a nurse, a healer, someone used to helping others. Of course... And the others, too. Nice people--'

'How do you know about the others?' asked Lestrade, exasperated.

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

'Your computer is ridiculously easy to hack, Lestrade. Now focus. They were all nice men, people that would help someone in trouble. And it was snowing when they were killed, all of them. How difficult would it be for a killer to pretend to slip and fall? And of course they would try to help, they would crouch and lean forward and at that point it would be impossible to avoid the blade. One swift move and the killer stands up and runs away and the victim falls face down. Smart.'

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair in frustration. That was all good and proper and not exactly useful at all.

‘Great. So they were killed because they were decent blokes and we have to look for an innocuous-looking person. Fantastic. Just fantastic.’

Sherlock stared at him with a vaguely disgusted expression.   
'Don't be thicker than you usually are. They were all killed around eleven, in dark, isolated alleys in this part of the city, all within three days. The killer targets people who try to help. What's the trigger? What started the killings? Who would target people like that? They do not have anything else in common. Just random people who found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. The attack is aimed at that particular category of people, not at the victims themselves. So the right question is: who would want to hurt people who seem nice?'

Lestrade and John exchanged a clueless look. Sherlock sighed and shook his head.

'If I were you I would look for a victim of rape with similar dynamics. She, or he - but statistically it's more probable we are talking about a woman - will have been helped by someone she didn't know who subsequently raped her. That's the trigger.'

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and stepped away from the crime scene. Greg, used as he was to Sherlock’s attitude, let him go and was already turning towards the coroner to give directions about the body when he saw him stop before the police tape and turn towards John with a tentative expression.

‘Are you coming along?’ he asked his flatmate, still standing next to Greg. John stared at him for a fraction of second, then he nodded once.

‘In a minute.’

Sherlock seemed a bit resigned but didn’t reply, simply stepping under the police tape and waiting patiently on the other side, looking away from the crime scene. Lestrade turned towards John with a frown. He was staring at Sherlock’s back with piercing eyes.

‘Is this still because of Baskerville?’

John sighed, his shoulders sagging a bit. He looked exhausted.

'It's just that... you know, he doesn't really understand how it upset me. And I know it's petty, but I want him to feel as bad as I felt, only I’m not that much of a bastard, so I just keep behaving like I am still angry at him. Which I am, but not really that much. Anyway, he's been on this side of tolerable for a couple of days, so I think that he's finally feeling at least a bit guilty.

‘Talking of which, I suppose I have to apologize for that case with the elephant. I know he was hell to work with, but I really was terribly pissed off with him and the way he behaved the first day, as if nothing had happened, as if I weren't still having nightmares because of him. Well, it was either leaving for a couple of days or kill him. And I do care enough for him not to really want him dead, you know.'

Lestrade nodded sympathetically.

'I think he'll come around to it, eventually. He's just a bit slow on the emotional side, John, and I think he was scared of you leaving permanently; that's why he was such a prat with everyone.'

John shrugged his shoulders, not knowing how to answer to that.

‘Well, I might as well go before he decided that after all I am not worth the wait. Good luck with your case; you know where to find us if you need us again.’

Greg nodded again and turned to talk with the coroner, his thoughts lingering only for a second on the weird ways Sherlock’s mind worked. He watched as the body was removed, then he gave Sally some instructions and left for New Scotland Yard.

He might as well start that research among the victims of rape.

* * *

 

As always, Sherlock had been right. They found a match in the modus operandi after a couple of hours. Rachel Bailly, aged 27. She was a medicine PhD student and on her way back home from the gym when she slipped on a frozen puddle hidden by the snow and met her rapist, whom she hadn't been able to describe or recognize. They hadn’t managed to catch him.

It had happened a week before.

As soon as Lestrade had declared the reason of his visit, sitting uncomfortably on her small living room, she had fallen into pieces. One hour later, he had her signed confession and the murder weapon. It was enough to convict her, but Lestrade couldn't really feel happy about it.

Sure, the girl had killed three innocent men, but she had been a victim first and she hadn't got justice. He really hoped the court would consider the circumstances and give her a lighter sentence.

Putting his signature on the last of the documents for the case, Lestrade closed the folder and put it on the stack on his desk. He felt drained. His divorce, Sherlock being worse than ever, Mycroft popping up at his flat out of the blue and scaring him to death. And now this case. That poor girl. He wouldn't be surprised if he dreamed of her that night. He briefly considered asking John out for a pint, or maybe Donovan, but she was still busy with paperwork and John hadn't really seemed to be on the right mood for a pub crawl.

Sighing, he decided to head home straight away. He was switching off his computer when a small knock on his door made him look up from the screen.

His eyebrows raised in surprise.

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, ducklings!  
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos; it's heartwarming to see that you guys like the story.  
> Also, thanks for staying with me through the introductory chapters; as much as I loved writing them, they were, well, introductory. Hopefully, now the story will get a bit more exciting.  
> Without further ado, enjoy chapter four, which would have been a lot worse without the help of my lovely Beta, Linnet!

Mycroft was reading a very long and very boring report on one of the last missions in Syria when his email alert went off. Glad to have a distraction, he checked the new inbox message. It was the daily report from Anthea. That meant it was already five p.m. and his personal assistant would soon be heading home. He scrolled past the first points - nothing alarming or of any interest - he scoffed at the Prime Minister ridiculing himself in public again and he frowned at the very last element on the list.

It was a warning notification from Lestrade's surveillance team. No real danger for him, but there was a note on the case he had been working on. Mycroft opened the file with its details and his frown deepened. It was indeed a bad one, the murderer being a victim herself and Lestrade being one of those emphatic people who could not avoid relating to the others. Tapping on his keyboard pensively, Mycroft accessed the CCTV in the Detective's office and observed the man as he filled in various documents, stopping regularly to rub his face with his hands and to fetch himself a cup of coffee.

In the following two hours, Mycroft left the CCTV open on his desktop and kept an eye on it as he went through the rest of the reports waiting for his inspection and approval. He counted five cups of coffee and two cigarette breaks. At seven, his stack of documents had been analyzed, signed and filed away and Mycroft considered calling for the car and going home. Then his eyes focused on the footage on his screen and the exhaustion on the D.I.'s face was so evident that Mycroft felt a pang of sympathy for the man. Watching him sigh for the umpteenth time, Mycroft took into consideration his options. Lestrade was evidently in need of companionship that night and Mycroft was sure he could fetch someone available within eight minutes, but he doubted Lestrade would not sense some sort of trick if an unknown beauty appeared at his office door to ask him out - and it was late enough for the D.I. to head home in a few minutes. Calling John was excluded; he would probably tell him to go, ah-- penetrate himself and then report to Lestrade straight away. Sherlock... Mycroft shook his head, refusing to picture a scenario in which his brother took Lestrade out for a relaxing evening.

With a sigh, he pondered his last option and found it risky, but not overly so. He would just have to be subtle. Something he was used to. Nodding to himself, he switched off his computer and stood. He might as well get ready for it.

* * *

 

Greg was not expecting to see Mycroft Holmes leaning on the doorframe of his office. Wondering what had happened this time, he gathered what little energy he had left and tried to smile politely to the man.

'Mr. Holmes. What can I do for you?' It came out more like a deformed grimace.

Mycroft straightened himself, stepping away slightly from the doorframe and leaning on his umbrella. He looked as untouchable as ever; no trace of that sleepy man was left in his composure, and his three piece suit was perfectly tailored around his frame and creased so sharply that it was almost painful to watch.

'I was wondering if you'd do me the favour of joining me for a drink, Detective Inspector.'

Lestrade quirked his eyebrows. That was unprecedented.

'What for?' he asked, staring at the man with narrowed eyes.

Mycroft held his gaze without a flinch.

'I wish to have your opinion on a matter which would better not be discussed where interested parties could hear,' he said flatly. 'If it is not too much trouble, of course,' he added as a second thought.

'Of course,' repeated Lestrade with a hint of sarcasm. As if anyone could say no to a Holmes. 'I was on my way out anyway, so I guess it is not too much trouble.'

Mycroft nodded once.

'Your cooperation is highly appreciated, Detective Inspector.'

Greg stood and fetched his coat from the hanger, then followed Mycroft out of his office.

The man walked a step ahead of him, leading them both to the main entrance of the building, where the familiar black car was waiting for them on a double yellow line.

Mycroft opened the back door and slid into the car with a swift move that Greg could not avoid envying a bit while he bent and sat down clumsily on the leather seat. He wondered if the older Holmes had taken lessons in elegance when he was younger. It did not seem to be such an absurd idea.

They spent the journey in silence, each of them staring absentmindedly outside the window. Greg was surprised when the car came to a halt outside a pub not that far from his flat, not a shabby place but not particularly posh either. He had been there a couple of times before; it was a neat pub, with all sorts of customers.

He followed Mycroft inside and looked around for any familiar faces. He nodded to the bartender, then focused on the back of his companion while he walked through the fairly crowded room. Arching an eyebrow in surprise, Greg took note of the rather lovely view in front of him. Broad shoulders, long legs and a hint of a surprisingly fit arse under the tails of the suit. How come he hadn't noticed that before?

Greg froze for an instant. Wait, was he checking out Mycroft Holmes, of all people? What the hell was he thinking? Shaking his head, he caught up with the man, forcefully refusing to let his eyes wander again. He blamed his exhausted state for that.

They sat down in a miraculously empty stall towards the back of the room, mostly concealed from unwanted eyes but still able to look at the people crowding the pub. It was still early, but it was also a Friday night. It was bound to become packed in a couple of hours.

Greg brought his eyes back to Mycroft, feeling slightly uncomfortable when he found him already staring back intently.

'Alright, down to business,' he said.

Mycroft crooked his head slightly.

'Perhaps we should order something to drink first?' he suggested calmly, 'Or maybe to eat? Did you have dinner, Detective Inspector?'

Greg nodded, then shook his head. Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Greg felt ridiculously stupid.

'Yes, we should order something to drink; no, I haven't had dinner yet,' he clarified. 'Did you?'

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively.

'I'm not hungry at the moment, but I am not averse to having something to drink.'

'Same here.'

Mycroft nodded once, then waved in the direction of a waitress, who approached them with a pen and a notepad ready in her hands.

'What can I bring you, sirs?' she asked politely.

'A whiskey sour, please, straight,' stated Mycroft, flatly.

'And a gin tonic,' finished Lestrade. 'Thank you.'

The waitress nodded and headed towards the counter. Mycroft focused his penetrating eyes on Lestrade again. It was unnerving.

'Now Detective Inspector, to use your own words, down to business. Pray tell me, what's happening to Sherlock?'

'What do you mean?' asked Greg with narrowed eyes.

Mycroft shifted on his bench, crossing his left leg over the right one and leaning against the backrest.

'He's been unusually ... subdued this past few days; I am certain you noticed. Of course, a subdued Sherlock is still one of the most annoying individuals with which one can have the misfortune of having to deal, but you see, I am concerned. He is not his usual self.'

Greg arched an eyebrow, staring silently at Mycroft for a while. He wasn’t sure what Mycroft really wanted to know; surely, that sounded just like a trick question to hide the real one.

'I can't say I haven't noticed, because I have, but I am pretty sure you already know the cause of his changed attitude.' He planted one elbow on the table and leaned slightly towards Mycroft. 'What is this all about, Mr. Holmes?'

The waitress chose that moment to bring them their drinks and Greg leaned back against the backrest of his bench. Mycroft waited until she had left the table with her empty tray before answering.

'I have suspicions, of course, and I am fairly certain they are correct, but I would appreciate knowing your opinion on the matter, Detective Inspector. Also, I think we've known each other long enough for you to stop with all that “Mr. Holmes” farce. It's Mycroft.' He stared at him with a slight, haughty smirk which Lestrade decided was the posh version of a mocking face. Sadly, he had never had that level of subtlety in him. He stretched his lips in the falsest smile he could produce and stared right back.

'Gregory, please.' He took care of rounding the 'r's in his name the same way Holmes had done. Two could play that game, couldn't they? He grabbed his drink and took a sip, waiting for a reply. Mycroft's expression hadn't changed at all, trademark smirk still in place. He reached for his own drink, mirroring Greg's actions, and fiddled with the stem of the decorative cherry before picking it up and putting it in his mouth.

'Well?' he asked, when Greg didn't answer his implicit question.

'Well what?'

Mycroft breathed out a sigh, eyeroll still not present but approaching quickly. Lestrade was playing dumb for the sole purpose of annoying him, of course. He found it almost amusing. Almost.

'What is your opinion on the matter, Gregory?' he repeated deliberately slowly, stressing the name in the same way the Detective had done.

Greg registered the sigh and pondered for a second whether to drag out the farce a bit longer and ask him what matter he was referring to, but decided otherwise. Mycroft might have been humoring him, but Lestrade was not sure how far he could stretch it without truly annoying the man, and he really wasn’t looking forward to experiencing the consequences. His life was already a mess without another Holmes playing with it. He took another thoughtful sip of his cocktail and realized it was already half-finished. He spared a fraction of a second to curse the entire community of bartenders and their awful habit of putting more ice than alcohol in the cocktails before focusing again to the hard task of explaining Sherlock's feelings to his brother.  

'Sherlock hurt John's feelings back at Dartmoor,' he said.

Mycroft nodded once, distractedly stroking the edge of his glass with a fingertip.

'Pretty much clear.'

Greg followed with his eyes the circular, vaguely hypnotic movement of Mycroft's hand. He had long, lean hands, with cured nails and a simple golden band on his right hand. Not a wedding ring, or it would have been on the left one. Greg's reflections were interrupted by a polite throat-clearing sound. He quickly averted his eyes and stared at his own hands instead.

'And now he's making up for it,' he added. He reached for his glass and downed the rest of his cocktail before too much ice melted in it.

'Indeed.' Mycroft took a small sip from his glass and Greg noticed he had barely touched the drink at all. He looked down at his empty glass and considered his options for an instant, then caught the waitress's attention amid the ever-growing crowd and gestured her to bring him another gin and tonic. When he looked back at the man in front of him, he found himself pierced through by a pair of assessing grey eyes.

'The real question, Gregory, is why my brother would ever want to make up for anything. We both know he is not the apologetic type.'

Greg nodded his thanks to the waitress as she replaced the empty glass with a full one and played with the straw, buying time. Damn, why on earth did Mycroft want to discuss that with him?

'John-- Sherlock cares for John a lot more than he wants to admit even to himself. And John was truly upset by the entire matter, so he has been, well, sort of getting even by not talking to Sherlock or following him around, as you know very well - probably better than I do, for all that matters. I suppose at some point Sherlock had enough of John not considering him in the least and started behaving as a decent man in compensation.'

Mycroft’s face stayed blank as usual, but Greg thought he saw a flash of anguish in his eyes, just for a second.

'I thought so.' Mycroft sighed, looking down at the glass between his hands. 'I am afraid John Watson will be my brother's downfall,' he stated with a flat, cold voice. Then he picked up his drink and downed it in a harsh mouthful.

Greg's eyes widened in surprise. That had been totally unexpected. He silently signalled the waitress for another whiskey sour and observed Mycroft with a frown. He hadn't thought the older Holmes could be so affected by something so mundane as his brother's relationships, not to mention let it show to any mortal soul, but apparently here he was, silently watching Mycroft Holmes downing a frankly disgusting drink over his brother’s gradual humanization. What a night.

* * *

 

Mycroft blinked rapidly as the alcohol burnt in his throat. Jesus Christ, had he really just downed an almost untouched cocktail in front of Lestrade? A quick glance to the Detective Inspector confirmed that yes, he had indeed, if the gaping expression of complete incredulity was anything to go by. It was almost comical, and Mycroft felt the sudden impulse to giggle. He repressed it immediately; he doubted the poor man in front of him could cope with a laughing Mycroft Holmes. He watched him as he wordlessly ordered him another drink and could not help letting his eyes wander a bit more than it might have been considered appropriate. After all, Mycroft had always liked men with short grey hair, and the Detective Inspector happened to be a truly fine specimen. He averted his eyes as soon as Lestrade turned back at him. He felt slightly flushed. That drink had apparently hit harder than expected, but Mycroft decided it was quite a fitting parallel, since the reason he had downed it in the first place had hit him just as hard. He knew that Sherlock cared deeply for John Watson, but to hear it from someone else had made it look more real than ever.

He closed a hand around the new glass, looking at the yellowish liquid as if it held the answers to all the questions thinking of Sherlock made him come up with. He felt exhausted. Apparently, the Detective Inspector wasn't the only one in need of a break.

'So,' said Greg tentatively. 'Uhm. That was-- uh. Hard week?'  

'You could say so,' said Mycroft smiling slightly. It wasn't that far from the truth. His working weeks were never easy or relaxing.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

Mycroft raised his eyes and met Greg's. He hesitated for a second.

'It's very kind of you, Gregory, but I don't think I am allowed to do so.'

Greg nodded, understanding. A fairly awkward silence followed.

‘And how was your week?’ Mycroft recognised that it wasn’t the best question he could have come up with. Greg looked at him skeptically.

‘I’m pretty sure you already know, don’t you?’

Mycroft didn’t bother denying it. They both went silent again.

'Well,’ said Greg eventually, apparently having come to some sort of inner resolution, ‘I suppose that at this point we might as well drown our sodding week in alcohol.' He raised his glass in Mycroft's direction and brought it to his lips, taking a generous mouthful. Mycroft stared at him for a very long second, then nodded. He really could use a night off. He mirrored Greg’s gesture and drank from his glass, too.

A couple of rounds later, the pub had grown alarmingly warmer, what with the number of people increasing on an exponential basis and crowding the room with their stifling body heat. Mycroft felt flushed and considered his options, just to give in with a shrug to the obvious solution. He shrugged off his jacket and lay it on the bench.

* * *

 

Greg hoped that his mouth had closed fast enough not to let Mycroft notice he had been gaping quite obviously at him. Greg's brain was still trying to give a meaning to what he had just seen. He had taken his jacket off. Mycroft Holmes, the three-fucking-piece suit man with the damned umbrella and the evergreen smirk had firstly downed a -well, many- whiskey sour and then taken off his jacket. In front of him. He considered briefly the possibility of having been drugged and of being hallucinating, but his cocktail seemed to be perfectly fine. Actually, so fine that he drank a bit more of it. He was starting to feel light-headed; after all, he hadn't had lunch and they were already almost at the end of the fourth round.

Anyway, thinking of it, Mycroft had all the good reasons to take that jacket off. It was fucking hot in that place. Hot as the Sahara. Hot as the Red Chilli Peppers. Hot as a dog. Greg giggled by himself and shook off his own jacket. And then he caught Mycroft staring. Oh, yes, he had definitely been staring. Or maybe he was just scoffing at him for that giggling. Yeah, that had to be it. Mycroft would not stare at him while he took off his jacket. He had no reason to do so. None whatsoever. Unless... Greg giggled again.

* * *

 

Mycroft looked at Greg while he giggled on his own, shaking his head periodically and finally getting rid of that jacket. Mycroft's fairly intoxicated mind reminded him briefly that giggling without any apparent reason was not usually considered a good sign, but he suppressed the thought with a shrug of his shoulders and let himself enjoy the view while Gregory was lost in his own mind. Indeed, the Detective Inspector was rather pleasant to watch, with his broad figure and his goofy smile. And his hair. Did Mycroft mention his hair?

Shit! Oh, damn, he'd said 'shit'. Oh, bugger, he'd said 'damn'. Oh, hell, he'd said-- well, he actually didn't say it out loud, so technically he thought 'shit', which should not be as bad as saying out loud. What did he think 'shit' for, anyway? Oh, shit! He had almost been caught. He was pretty sure Greg noticed he had been staring. Why was he staring in the first place? Oh, yes. The missing jacket. And the hair. Did he mention the hair? So soft, and steel grey, and... Mycroft shook his head, stopping his train of thought from derailing completely. For God's sake, he was a middle-aged man. He was expected to be able to hold his liquor. It might have been true that he hadn't had lunch nor dinner that day, but still finding himself fantasizing about the man in front of him after a couple of drinks was fairly embarrassing. Well, maybe it had been more than a couple. Mycroft felt himself flush and prayed for Gregory to be too lost in his inner sitcom to notice. It was all the pub's fault. No bar should be allowed to be this warm inside. With a resigned gesture, he unbuttoned his cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves in a neat, precise way, the force of habit taking control even in his status.

* * *

 

He was rolling up his sleeves. No, this needed to be more emphasised. _He was rolling up his sleeves._ Also, his forearms were smeared with almost invisible freckles, and Greg thought that he would very much like to tast-- nope. He wouldn't allow himself to finish that thought. Not at all. Not even for those pornographic forearms. Or that arse that he had hinted at before. He would very much like to give it a proper loo-- Greg, pull yourself together, man! A few cocktails and already half-stoned? Also, cocktails. Isn’t that an evocative word?

A small grumble made him avert his eyes from those freckled, surprisingly muscled forearms and Greg looked at Mycroft. He was slightly flushed and pouting and oh gosh, he was hot. He was also staring at him expectantly, if not with a slightly blurred gaze.

'I said that it's too warm in here, Gregory, and that I think I'll go and refresh myself in the loo. I'll be back in a minute.' Mycroft stood and Greg almost exclaimed out loud. That arse... That arse was going to the loo in that precise moment. It was not such a bad idea, actually. He might as well follow his enlightened example and use the facilities himself. Of course, Mycroft Holmes had to be a step ahead of him even when half drunk. He stood rather clumsily and followed Mycroft to the toilet.

 

 


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blimey, I forgot to write at the beginning of Chapter Four what the kingfisher operation was about. Sorry about that, guys. If anyone cares to know, it was the plan that Mycroft was creating so that Sherlock could fake his death and take down Moriarty's net. I've picked the Kingfisher to name it because it pretends to be dead in order to attract its preys. Simple as that.   
> This said, several thank-yous to my beta, Linnet, and to everyone who spent at least a minute reading this story.  
> This chapter is one of my favourites; I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

The restroom was almost deserted when Greg walked in. There was just a man using the urinal and Mycroft standing in front of the sinks, keeping his bare wrists under the running water. Greg moved towards the urinals, turned his back to the sinks and took care of his full bladder, while the other man zipped up his trousers and walked out without washing his hands. Greg wrinkled his nose as he buttoned his trousers and turned around clumsily to reach the sinks, letting his eyes wander on the long, lean body slightly curved on the marble surface. God, an ass like that should be illegal. Greg realized he was staring -again- and quickly settled his gaze on the mirror over the sinks where a pair of very blue and very smirking eyes stared back at him. Greg looked for a moment like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, then he blushed furiously. He averted his eyes and stumbled to the sink, washing his hands and carefully avoiding watching in the mirror again. Damn it, there was no way that Mycroft hadn't noticed him staring. And the bastard had been smirking - Greg glanced rapidly at the mirror - was still smirking. Suddenly, a lot of really not chaste ideas came into his mind on how to put that mouth into a better use. He shook his head in an useless attempt to clear his blurry mind and lifted his foot from the sink pedal, somehow turning at the same moment to get to the hand dryer. A fraction of second too late, his mind realized that maybe that was not a very clever move to make while drunk and quite unstable on his feet. Another fraction of second later, he was inexorably crushing into Mycroft, who stumbled in turn and smacked into the wall with his back, his hands automatically grabbing Greg to prevent him from hitting said wall with his nose.

They were close. Really close. And in a very interesting position, if one asked Greg, with his hands firmly planted against the wall at each side of Mycroft's head and Mycroft's hands gripping his hips, leaving damp prints in the thin fabric of his shirt. Greg risked a glance at Mycroft's expression and -oh God, he was still smirking. It was one of the most infuriating and arousing expressions he had ever seen on someone's face.

'Careful, Detective Inspector, or you might get to know my security team earlier than expected,' murmured Mycroft, bubbling slightly, his breath brushing against the tip of Greg's nose.

Greg stared right into his eyes and crooked his mouth in the wickedest smile he managed to produce.

'Will I? Well, I've always liked getting to know new people.'

'Have you, now?' said Mycroft, raising an eyebrow.

Greg didn't even try not to stare at his lips while they moved so suavely. He moved an inch closer, almost unconsciously.

'Indeed I have.'

'How fortunate. And pray tell, how deeply do you like to get to know these, ah, new people?'

Greg uttered his answer almost against Mycroft's lips.

'I must admit, I like to get to know them thoroughly.'

'I thought so,' murmured Mycroft, and Greg felt him smirk against his lips as their mouths finally crushed together, their tongues chasing each other in a frantic match, their noses getting in the way while changing the angle. Greg pressed their bodies together, pinning Mycroft to the wall and enjoying the solid body beneath his, while Mycroft hands slid from his hips to his back, fisting his shirt and keeping Greg flush against him. It was messy and sloppy and so, so unexpected, but it was breathtaking nonetheless. Quite literally. They kept going until they ran out of breath, but eventually Greg pulled away fractionally and rested his forehead on the wall, trying to regain control of his breath. He could feel Mycroft's heavy pants against him, his chest raising and lowering fast, and his breath caressing his hair. Greg couldn't help himself. He giggled. A few seconds later, to his great surprise, Mycroft joined him. They ended up collapsing against the wall, laughing out loud like two idiots and gasping for air. In that moment they couldn't care less of being sprawled on the floor of a public restroom in a very dishevelled way. Greg was almost sitting in Mycroft's lap, and the thought alone made him laugh harder. Or just harder. He nibbled slightly Mycroft's earlobe, the ghost of a smile still evident on his lips, and felt him shiver at the touch. Oh, he was definitely enjoying it.

'Mr. Holmes,' he murmured, swallowing another fit of giggles. 'Would you like to come back to mine tonight?'

* * *

 

They had walked -staggered- all the way to Greg's flat, leaning against each other for support and laughing breathlessly every time one of them swayed too much, gripping the other's clothes to prevent a fall. They made it to the flat in trice the time it would normally have taken them, but eventually they got there, with Greg fumbling with his keys for a good two minutes before he realized he was trying to open the door to his flat with the main building key. They stumbled inside and Greg just had the time to close the door before he found himself flush against it, Mycroft's body keeping him in place. Mycroft's lips hovered upon his teasingly for a few tense instants, then he broke into a grin and closed the distance, nibbling playfully at Greg's lower lip before kissing him properly, cradling his head with his hands and dragging him closer. Greg answered eagerly, opening his mouth and licking Mycroft's lips, gripping his hips firmly before pushing away from the door. They staggered all the way down the hall and into the bedroom. As soon as Mycroft felt the bed against the back of his knees, he sat down on it and Greg stopped between his spread legs, incredibly close, watching him with a crooked smile. He reached for Mycroft's tie and unknotted it, letting it hang around his neck, then he pushed against his shoulder and Mycroft got the hint, lying down on the bed.

'Scoop up,' said Greg, kicking off his shoes and kneeling on the bed while Mycroft retreated towards the pillows.'Now, Mr. Holmes, what should I do to you?' He fumbled with Mycroft's shoelaces and got rid of his shoes and socks, waiting for an answer.

'Mmm?' He asked again when he didn't get it. Mycroft looked at him with a malicious grin.

'Well, Detective Inspector, surprise me.'

Greg huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. A wave of dizziness seized him, but he fought it away and focused again on the lean body lying on his bed. He straddled him, his knees at the same level of Mycroft's hips, and reached for the first button of Mycroft's waistcoat.

'I think I'll start with unwrapping you,' he said, 'very slowly, so that when I'm finished with it you'll be aching for me to touch you.'

Mycroft shivered, Greg's words giving him goosebumps.

'Now, now, Gregory, you like playing with your toys.'

Greg grinned at him, his hands working their way through the remaining two buttons of the waistcoat.

'Don't you?'

Mycroft lifted himself up a bit and looked at Greg with a wicked smile.

‘Occasionally.’

Greg pushed against Mycroft’s shoulder, making him lie back again, then leaned forward until his lips hovered over Mycroft’s, their noses brushing together.

‘Well, lucky me,’ he chuckled before nibbling at Mycroft’s lower lip teasingly. Mycroft smiled against the kiss and moved his hands until they reached the hem of Greg’s trousers, tugging at Greg’s shirt until he was able to feel naked skin under his fingertips, then unceremoniously shoved his hands under the shirt, making Greg shiver and arch against the touch.

‘Jesus Christ, Holmes! Your hands are like fucking icicles,’ he protested, slowly relaxing again against Mycroft’s hands.

‘I am not cold, Gregory. The fact is that you are astonishingly hot,’ he said, his face a mask of pretended seriousness.

‘Am I, now?’ asked Greg chuckling.

Mycroft made a show of thinking very hard about it.

‘I believe you are; very much so,’ he finally declared, nodding decisively for good measure.

Greg crooked an eyebrow and smirked, looking down at Mycroft with an amused expression. ‘Why, thank you,’ he said, averting his eyes and staring prudishly at his nails, batting his eyelashes in a very cheesy imitation of a modest girl. Mycroft only sighed in exasperation, then grabbed Greg’s tie and used it to drag him into a heated kiss, resting their bodies flush together. Mycroft’s hands ran down Greg’s back, feeling the muscles twist under his touch, grabbing his arse firmly and pulling him closer, making their erections brush together. God, he’d missed that. Greg pulled away from the kiss just to nibble playfully at Mycroft’s chin and leave a trail of feathery bites down his neck, working his way through the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt to get better access to his body. He just stopped to shove away his jacket and shirt after Mycroft finished unbuttoning them, going back to tasting every inch of naked skin as he revealed it, slowly working his way down to Mycroft’s navel. He pulled the tails of the shirt free and undid the last button, leaving the shirt hanging open.

Nibbling at the soft skin around it, Greg shoved his nose in Mycroft’s belly-button, getting a puffed laugh in response. He looked up at Mycroft and smiled wickedly. The man was sprawled against the pillows, still mostly dressed and with a breathy smile on his lips. It was the personification of debauchery.

‘You’re ticklish,’ chuckled Greg, flicking his tongue against Mycroft’s navel. Mycroft shivered remarkably, trying and failing miserably to stop the involuntary movement.

‘I certainly am not,’ he pouted, staring down at the smirking Detective Inspector.

‘Yes, you are,’ rebutted him, slowly brushing his fingers against Mycroft’s belly. Mycroft’s muscles twitched, agreeing with Greg’s statement. Mycroft pouted a bit more and Greg looked at him with a satisfied grin before crawling back up and pressing a smacking kiss of Mycroft’s lips.

‘Now stop pouting and let me go on with the unwrapping.’

‘You make it sound like I am a present,’ said Mycroft, rolling his eyes.

‘Presents are not the only thing that can be unwrapped,’ said Greg. ‘What about washing machines?’

Mycroft stared at him, perplexed.

‘What about them?’

‘They can be unwrapped, too. Also, they’re always covered with so, so many layers, just like you are.’

‘Did you just compare me to a washing machine, Gregory?’ asked Mycroft narrowing his eyes.

‘Apparently I did,’ chuckled Greg, sinking his face in the crook of Mycroft’s neck and sucking delicately at the pale skin. God, Mycroft tasted surprisingly good. No-one should be allowed to be so tasty; one could even start justifying cannibalism .

Mycroft sighed, relaxing into Greg’s touch, not caring if he left marks. Not really thinking about it, to be honest. He was feeling high in the best possible way; he couldn’t even remember the last time he had been so relaxed around another human being, or when he’d last been so playful in bed. Ah, the joys of alcohol. The thought of making amendments to the laws on its consumption briefly flickered in his mind and Mycroft marked the issue for later analysis. He had other things to focus on at that very moment. For example, a very keen Detective Inspector who had slowly started tormenting his belly with his tongue. Again. Mycroft tried to resist it and failed miserably, letting out a choked chuckle and squirming under Gregory’s touch, trying to escape the ticklish feeling. He felt Greg smile against his skin, then his hands roamed over Mycroft’s trousers and slowly unfastened them . He tugged at them and Mycroft lifted his hips enough for Greg to slide the trousers down his legs and find out that Mycroft was not wearing any pants. Greg stared at Mycroft’s erection with hungry eyes. It had been ages –quite literally- since he’d last had sex with a man, but God, if he hadn’t missed it. He looked up at Mycroft’s face smiling wickedly.

‘Oh, you are kinky, Mr. Holmes.’

‘Merely trying to respect the high standard of dress that such a fine suit requires, Detective Inspector,’ answered Mycroft arching an eyebrow.

‘Sure thing,’ said Greg, trailing his fingers against Mycroft’s inner thighs. He slowly kissed his way up to Mycroft’s crotch, feeling him shiver under his touch, hearing his sharp inhale as Greg lay a kiss at the base of his erection. He left a trail of open-mouthed kisses along Mycroft's shaft until he reached the tip, then hovered over it for a fraction of second, his hot breath crushing into the sensitive skin. He looked up to Mycroft's face and their eyes locked, shining with lust, pupils so dilated they covered the colour of the iris. They grinned at each other, then Greg lowered his head and took Mycroft's erection into his mouth, stopping only when his gag reflex kicked in. He felt Mycroft's muscles contract in his thighs, his whole body reacting to the sensation, and felt a shiver run through his spine in response. He swallowed against the tip of Mycroft's cock and Mycroft let out a muffled groan, instinctively opening his legs further to offer him better access. Greg smiled - well, smiled as much as it was possible to with a full mouth - and retreated, focusing on the head, teasing him with his tongue until he heard Mycroft whimper; then he ducked again, bobbing his head earnestly and stroking the base of Mycroft's erection with one hand, covering his whole length. Greg was feeling light-headed, almost overwhelmed by Mycroft's scent and taste, and stopped only when he felt Mycroft pulling at his hair as he tried to catch his breath enough to utter proper words and not needy noises.

'Too close,' he managed between a gasp and another, pulling again at Greg's hair to make him meet his lips in a bruising kiss, their teeth clashing together while he tasted himself in Greg's mouth. They spent a few, very lazy minutes kissing sloppily, and Mycroft used them to catch his breath and regain control over himself - sort of. Greg was sprawled on top of him, rubbing himself lightly against Mycroft’s thigh, apparently entirely focused on his slow movement.

Mycroft took advantage of the moment and, with a quick move, he hooked Greg's leg with his foot and flipped him over, landing more or less gracefully on him and making him puff out a surprised breath as the air left his compressed lungs.

'Smooth,' said Greg breathlessly.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose, sprawled gracelessly on Greg. 'I miscalculated the landing, apparently,' he admitted.

'We'll have to practice the move, then,' replied Greg. 'We don't want you to be less than perfect at something, do we?' and without waiting for an answer, flipped them over again, grinning down at Mycroft while the other batted his eyelashes in mild surprise.  

'That was wicked, Gregory,' he protested. 'I demand you kiss me as a compensation.'

Greg laughed and complied, rubbing himself against Mycroft's thigh while he explored his mouth thoroughly, losing himself in the delicious feeling of their tongues fighting playfully and Mycroft's hands roaming around his back. A second later, he was twisting in mid-air as two full-grown adults missed the small but relevant fact that a bed had indeed a limited surface  and that said surface was no longer under their bodies.

They hit the carpeted floor with an undignified 'umpf'.

After two frozen seconds of silence, in which they studiously avoided looking at each other, they could not resist anymore. Their eyes met and they started giggling like two idiots. Hell, they felt like idiots. Were, probably. They laughed until they ran out of breath, Mycroft burying his face in Greg's neck, his whole body shaking with laughter against Greg's. Shaking. Vibrating. Oh. Mycroft suddenly remembered why they finished on the floor in the first place and shivered with pleasure, laying a wet kiss on Greg's neck, licking his way up to his mouth.

'You are right,' he said with a husky voice. 'We'll have to practice the landing, but for now, would you fuck me, please?'

He watched Greg's pupils dilate even more, his expression shifting from amusement to raw desire in a fraction of second. Greg locked his eyes with Mycroft’s and roamed his hands against the soft skin of his back. How could he refuse when Mycroft asked so politely? He shifted his gaze to Mycroft's lean body, so evidently ready for him, and exhaled slowly.

'I think I will, Mycroft. I think I will.'

 

 


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Nothing new from this end of the line; many thanks to Linnet, my magical beta, and to anyone who spends a tiny bit of his/her time reading this story. I would love to hear what you think about it; I am plotting a new fic right now and I'd like to know what's working for you and what's not, so that I can improve with my next work.  
> Oh, I might just mention it now; we are more or less halfway through the story. I hope you enjoy the second half at least as much as you did the first.

The day began with a ray of sunshine that filtered through the heavy curtains and hit Mycroft's face, forcing him to leave the unaware safety of his sleep. He cracked open one eye, groaned, closed it shut and turned around in the bed, burying himself under the duvet, snuggling closer to the pool of heat coming from his left si-- Heat. Human body. Bed. Not his. What the...?!

Mycroft's eyes snapped open and he took in the sight of a very asleep, very naked and very real Detective Inspector just a few inches from his nose. Fine. Damage control. Focus, Mycroft, and breathe. How _the hell_ did you end up in Lestrade's bed? Mycroft poked tentatively at his knackered synapses and tried to bring them back to life. He cautiously rolled away from Lestrade and stifled a moan as his body protested loudly against even the smallest movement. Resting on his back, Mycroft covered his eyes with his forearm and breathed deeply. His head was throbbing as if his neurons had suddenly decided to try out their best dance moves (in a fucking street fight hip-hop parkour battle) and his stomach was apparently very keen on joining the competition, too. Fine. He had experienced worse. That time in Baghdad, for example. Even though perhaps thinking of Baghdad while his stomach was auto-digesting itself was not the best idea ever. Nevertheless, he knew he could control it, so it was time he started doing it. Squeezing his eyes, he concentrated the pain in a mental burning dot and buried it in a very remote part of his mind. He could still feel it as bad -dreadful, honestly- background music, but it was not overcoming every other thought anymore. Which meant that shreds of the previous night started flashing in his memory. Very vivid shreds. Containing lips against soft, sensitive skin and hands mapping out muscles and silhouettes, and heavy breathing and moans and - oh God - he had let him do it. That was why he was aching everywhere. Well, that and the improvised flying lesson. Wait. He hadn't let him. He fucking begged him to. Fucking alcohol, fucking pub and fucking Detective Inspector Lestrade.

For the first time in years, Mycroft took a minute of his time to revel in pure self-pity. It was a very intense and very dark minute in which he listed in detail every single reason he had to whine, came up with two hundred and forty-nine entries and then promptly filed them in the same place where he put the dot of pain.

Great. No need to panic. He got himself into that mess, he could easily get himself out. Time to make a swift exit. Lestrade was apparently still sleeping the sleep of the just and all that Mycroft had to do was get out of bed, retrieve his clothes and disappear into thin air for as long as possible. If he was lucky enough, Lestrade would not even remember he had been there in the first place. That would be convenient. A pity, since it had been a glorious shag, but convenient nonetheless. With only the slightest sigh, Mycroft stopped his mind from going back to the memories of the night. Honestly, glorious shag or not, most of it had been a perfect example of ridicule. And at some point he got compared to a washing machine. Jesus Christ. Putting a stop to the flow of memories, for real this time, Mycroft sat up and realized his mistake a fraction of second too late, as a pained moan escaped his lips. A _loud_ pained moan.

Not even hoping anymore, he slowly turned his head towards Lestrade and met a very shocked, very brown pair of eyes blinking rapidly while staring at him in disbelief.

* * *

 

Greg was running down a green hill, waving his hands and laughing while the breeze ruffled his hair, the sun outlining his silhouette and making everything seem brighter than it really was. The sky was cloudless and incredibly blue and he felt like doing a cartwheel, so he did. He laughed a bit more as he landed on his back on the soft grass and a squirrel stopped a few inches from his head and smiled at him. It was wearing a waistcoat. It was a very funny looking squirrel, yet Greg could not help himself from smiling back.

'Where's the umbrella?' he asked jokingly. The squirrel looked at him disapprovingly and reached behind its back, fetching a pink cocktail umbrella and opening it with a superior expression on his snout. Greg hummed in approval and looked up at the sky. There was a dotted butterfly fluttering about over his head. Smiling, Greg lifted his hand and poked it gently. The butterfly arched away and let out a shockingly loud groan.

Disoriented, Greg opened his eyes and batted away the remnants of his dream. There had been a squirrel in a waistcoat in it. How weird. He yawned, took in Mycroft sitting in his bed, all pale skin and long limbs, closed his eyes again and went back to sleep. For maybe a second and a half. Then his brain finished processing clothed squirrels and dotted butterflies and started working on the more recent visual information it had just received. Suddenly very awake, Greg snapped open his eyes and yes, Mycroft was still sitting in his bed and yes again, he was absolutely looking at him. What _the fuck_ happened last night?

* * *

 

Mycroft stared at Lestrade trying to come up with something to say which wouldn't make him sound like a complete moron and came up with the perfect sentence.

'Uh...'

Greg blinked once, his gaze apparently glued on a spot somewhere near Mycroft's right thigh. Mycroft sighed, pinched his nose, then tried again.

'I, uh, I was just leaving, Detective Inspector.' That should work just fine. Well done, Mycroft, play it cool.

'What were you doing in my bed?' asked Greg to Mycroft's thigh, his voice coarse and pensive. Mycroft wondered if that was a question that actually demanded an answer or if it was just Lestrade's mind trying to wake up and find sense in the absurd situation. Greg rolled over on his back and let out a muffled groan. Followed by a truly awkward silence.

'Oh,' he said, having apparently connected the dots. 'Oh shit,' he added after a while. Definitely connected the dots. Well, better put an end to the situation. Hell, he had forgotten how much he loathed the mornings after.

'Indeed, Detective Inspector.' Looking around, he spotted his trousers at the end of the bed, fetched them and stood, flinching as his body made it clear that such inconsiderate activities were not to be tolerated without severe consequences. He dressed as fast as he could without showing he was feeling awkward and studiously avoided to look at the man still lying in bed. He reached the door and cracked it open, then hesitated for a second and turned towards Lestrade. He was lying on his back, half covered by the duvet, and he had both his hands on his eyes. He looked positively wrecked. With a small nod and only the slightest sigh, Mycroft turned again and stepped out of the room, closing the door silently behind himself.

'Goodbye, Detective Inspector,' he murmured to the empty hall, before he shook himself and quickly left the flat.

* * *

 

Greg listened to the door closing with sense of finality and sighed, slowly moving his hands away from his eyes and forcing himself to face reality. He'd got drunk and had sex with Mycroft Holmes. And he had _enjoyed_ it. The whole idea was so absurd that Greg had to hide his face in his hands again with a groan. For a moment, he considered the possibility of never facing the world again; just lying in bed and drowning himself in self-pity sounded perfectly fine. Sadly, his bladder didn't seem to agree. Muffling a curse, Greg sat up and got out of bed, his body aching in a lot of right places and a few wrong ones. Grabbing his dressing gown and draping it around his body, he conceded himself a pensive look at the bed, taking in the state of the sheets and smirking against his better judgement. It had been an excellent shag, no matter what. With a sigh and a rueful expression, he turned his back on the bed, stepped out of the room and padded down the hall. Closing the door of the bathroom behind himself, he forced himself to put a stop to the flow of memories from the previous night. It had happened, it had been great, and it had been an isolated case. There was no use at all in revelling in memories of something that would not happen again. Not that he wanted it to. Not in the least.

 

 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Let's move to the angsty part of the fic. I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, many thanks to my beta, Linnet, and to anyone who reads this story.

_A month later_

Greg had been staring at the black gravestone since the moment he had stepped into the neatly trimmed graveyard and joined the small group of people gathered around the open grave. He could not bring himself to look at the shiny dark coffin ready to be lowered in it; instead, he kept reading over and over the fourteen golden letters engraved on the polished marble as if he were trying to carve them into his memory.

Everything looked surreal - the priest, the grave, the people in black - it all seemed like a well-staged performance, just a neatly directed show on which the final curtain was soon to fall. While the priest went on reading from an old bible about dust and ashes, Greg longed for a cigarette and wished it really was just a show.

Suddenly not able to look at the gravestone anymore, Greg lowered his eyes and focused on not meeting anyone else's. The guilt was slowly devouring him from the inside out, making it difficult to breathe and to stand there, silently watching the burial of one of the greatest men he'd ever known. Oh, he knew that he'd had only a very small part in it, that he'd done all he could for Sherlock, but it didn’t change anything. He still felt as if he was the one who had pushed him off that roof, that if he only had believed him straight away things might have gone differently. Yet he had doubted, everyone had, and this was the result. Sherlock was dead and had left behind a bunch of broken people. Sighing, Greg let his eyes fall on John. He was stiff as a mannequin, staring straight ahead while Mrs. Hudson clutched his arm, sobbing silently, her face hidden in a large tissue. His right hand was gripping his old crutch so tightly his knuckles had gone white. On the other side of the coffin, Mycroft was leaning against his black umbrella, his face the familiar blank mask he habitually wore. He was staring at his brother's coffin as if he could see past the black wood and right at Sherlock's still face. Nearby, Molly looked paler than her laboratory coat, tormenting her long scarf with anxious fingers. She was not crying and Greg wondered if she felt as drained as he did.

The rite seemed to go on forever, but eventually it came to an end. The priest closed his bible and made the sign of the cross over the open grave, muttering a final 'and may God rest his soul in peace'. Greg almost snorted, the idea of Sherlock at rest too absurd even to be considered a possibility. No, he thought, even after his death Sherlock would be a restless soul, always jumping from one thought to another -only, the thoughts wouldn't be his, not this time. To be fair, they wouldn't even be proper thoughts- just memories, jealously conserved in the minds of those who had known him and who would miss him the most.

Ashes to ashes, indeed.

Greg watched silently as the coffin was lowered into the open grave, then stepped into the short line of people and waited for his turn. He looked at Mycroft as he grabbed a handful of earth from the heap resting nearby, ready to be used to fill the grave, and threw it on the coffin, his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly as it landed with a muffled thud. Greg followed him with his eyes as he stepped away from the grave and leaned against his umbrella as if he needed some kind of support. Greg glanced back to the grave. John was standing on its edge, staring blankly at the coffin. Mrs. Hudson was a few steps behind him, her gaze focused on the freshly cut grass while her shaking shoulders betrayed her silent sobs. Greg felt hollow and useless, conscious that there was nothing he could do for either of them. He wasn't even sure if John wanted to talk to him anyway. He looked back at Mycroft, still clutching his umbrella as if it was the only thing that kept him anchored to the world. He was standing alone, avoiding the other people, and Greg hurt for him. He had just lost his brother. No-one should be left alone facing something like that. Greg knew he had no claims to be the one person who Mycroft could take comfort from, but he stepped out of the line nonetheless, walking up to him and slowly reaching out until he touched his forearm.

Mycroft looked up, straight into Greg's eyes, looking vaguely surprised.

'Detective Inspector.'

'Mycroft.' Greg wondered what could possibly follow after that. What do you say to a man who has just lost the one thing he fought for for almost his entire life?

'I am so sorry,' he muttered, his gaze dropping.

Mycroft stiffened, his gaze hardened.

'You have nothing to be sorry about, Detective Inspector. Sherlock knew perfectly well what he was doing and if it has to be anybody's fault, it is his.'

Greg stared at him, taken aback by the the harshness of his words.

'Listen, Mycroft, I know you are angry with him -we all are- but you shouldn't talk like that; you'll end up regretting it in a few years. You'll keep thinking of when you buried your brother and of how the only thing you could think of was that it was all his fault and that you loathed him for putting you through something like this, but you don't really mean it. If it has to be someone's fault, it is Moriarty's. He has already taken away Sherlock; don't let him take away the right to grieve your brother properly, too.'

Mycroft snorted scornfully, raising his chin just a bit, staring down at the man in front of him.

'I don't need your pity, Detective Inspector, nor do I want it. I said exactly what needed to be said and I am not changing my words simply because you think I will feel better if I do. You have no right to talk to me in this way. Now, if you will excuse me, I have many important matters to attend to.'

Greg watched him leave the graveyard with long strides, not turning back once, and wondered why Mycroft's words had stung so much. He knew he was right; he had had no right to talk to him about how he should feel. Yet, he had hoped he could help him, not make it worse for him. Apparently, Sherlock was not the only Holmes he'd let down. Feeling his throat tightening, he fought back the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. It was simply too much.

* * *

 

Sherlock was standing behind an oak, watching his funeral with a sort of sick curiosity. It was a surprisingly nice day for a funeral, sunny and warm, and it all felt a bit put off by it. It would have been much better if it had been raining. It would have added to the grieving mood. He scanned the few people gathered around the grave and scowled at Mycroft's flat expression. He surely could have tried harder to look upset. Lestrade was standing at the back, looking as lost as he always did when faced with a dead body, and Molly was not crying. Well, there was just so much he could ask from her, he supposed. He reluctantly looked away from Molly and moved his eyes to John. He didn't want to face the loss, the pain that was so evident on his face. Sherlock could lie to himself and believe he did not care about that, about the fact he was dead to all his friends and the people who knew him, but he could not deny the pain he felt when he finally looked at John. He had to force himself to stay hidden, he had to remember himself why he did it in the first place and that he could not hesitate now that everything had been set in motion. He tore away his gaze from John and the sobbing Mrs. Hudson at his side, looking for anything that would distract him from his best friend's grief.

He focused on Mycroft while he walked away from his grave and leaned on his umbrella. He looked surprisingly _truly_ afflicted, which didn't make sense to Sherlock, because Mycroft knew he had no real reason to grieve. He was wondering what was going on in his brother's head when Lestrade approached him tentatively, his expression guarded as he touched his arm. That was interesting, thought Sherlock. Unexpected. He stared at them as their eyes locked and they exchanged a few words. There was definitely something going on between them. He noticed that Lestrade was still keeping his hand on Mycroft's arm, looking -was that even possible?- worried for him. He had never seen his brother allow anyone to touch him for more that a few seconds. It was odd. Sherlock considered the various scenarios that would result in that unexpected situation and frowned. And then, suddenly, it clicked.

Something always changed in two people's countenance after they'd slept together; Sherlock knew that. Somehow, they became more unconsciously aware of the other person's body in the room, of how they moved, how they reacted. Even though they might feel awkward, their bodies didn't. He was staring at the evidence right now. They way Lestrade had touched his brother, the way his brother responded to that. It was evident. And if he didn't focus too much on the imagery, not completely repulsive. Yet, talking about awkward, their conversation seemed to be quite unpleasant, because Mycroft left a few minutes after, looking even stiffer than usual, and Lestrade stared at him leaving, looking as if he was about to have a mental breakdown. Sherlock wondered what they had been telling each other that made Lestrade look that hurt afterwards. Filing the data away for future analysis, Sherlock shifted his attention back to the small crowd. His eyes found John again and Sherlock forced himself to look at him properly. He knew it would be a long time until he could see him again, even if he was lucky enough to survive the mission.

Feeling his throat tighten, he started memorizing every detail of this new side of John, the grief contorting his face, the way his shoulders slumped. It would be a good incentive to get his mission over with as soon as possible.

* * *

 

Mycroft looked out of the window of his car, replaying his conversation with Gregory in his head. He hadn't considered the possibility that Gregory might want to talk to him; to be fair, he had thought he would stay as far away as possible from him after what had happened that night. Yet the man had not only talked to him, but he also had quite clearly tried to comfort and advise him. It had bothered Mycroft immensely that the Detective Inspector had noticed his distress and thought it fitting to intervene; that was the main reason he had been so brusque with him, together with the fact that Gregory had looked completely honest and Mycroft, for a moment, had felt grateful and had wished to have someone like him by his side. He could not allow himself to be this weak; it was happening more and more around Gregory and Mycroft worried about what it could mean.

He brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples for a while, trying to put the matter aside. Gregory had looked so hurt when he had left him in the cemetery. Mycroft felt a pang of guilt deep in his stomach and sighed deeply. It was all for the best, he considered. Gregory would not possibly want to have anything to do with him anymore and this could only help him regain his cold façade.

Saying that the last few weeks had been trying would have been an understatement. Of course, he was used to planning and plotting, but in this case his brother's safety had been at stake and organizing the entire operation had left him exhausted; not to mention the fake funeral.

No matter what, burying his brother had revealed itself to be more upsetting than he had foreseen and it had left him hollow and sore. He needed to rest; he needed to recover and regain control before someone noticed it was slipping through his fingers.

Mycroft sighed in relief when the driver stopped the car right outside his front door. He stepped out of it and entered his house, walking straight to his office. A bottle of fine scotch was waiting for him there.

* * *

 

Two hours later, Mycroft was sitting in his office, facing the fireplace and nursing a glass of scotch. He was positively fuming. He didn’t turn when he heard the door open, nor when his brother stood silently beside his armchair.

‘I told you not to leave this house, Sherlock.’

‘I...’

‘They could have seen you, the entire plan could have been ruined, months of work thrown away, and all just because you couldn’t do one single damn thing I asked you to.’

Sherlock stared at his brother, appalled. Mycroft swore rarely and definitely never lost control that way.

‘What happened?’ he asked almost cautiously.

‘Nothing happened,’ snapped Mycroft. ‘Apart from you being a selfish idiot.’

‘So this has nothing to do with your conversation with Lestrade,’ replied Sherlock, viciously. ‘Or with you having sex with him, I gather.’

‘Of course not,’ lied Mycroft automatically. ‘Why should that be of any importance in this matter?’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, even though Mycroft was not looking directly at him.

‘Why indeed. Yet, I have to admit, brother mine, you surprised me. I never thought you maintained an interest in such lousy activities.’

‘I don’t,’ spat Mycroft.

‘The evidence tells the opposite, I fear,’ said Sherlock in a satisfied, arrogant tone. The “selfish idiot” reprimand had stung him badly. ‘Even though I don’t really understand why you chose Lestrade. Of course, he is not the most hideous man I know, yet I must confess I’m quite at a loss of why you picked him, of all people.’

‘I haven’t picked anyone, brother mine. It happened once and will not again. Now, will you free me of your nefarious presence and go prepare for your journey, so that you can finally get as far away from me as this planet allows?’

'No, I don't think I will, Mycroft,' deadpanned Sherlock, sitting down in the empty armchair beside Mycroft's. 'I am so enjoying this conversation.' Mycroft snorted, unamused. 'You know, you might fool your minions, your superiors, even the Queen, Mycroft, but you can't fool me. I saw you at the funeral. You were an open book.'

'Of course. Care to share with me what you read?'

'It doesn't matter what I read, it matters that I could read it in the first place. You need to get a grip on yourself, or it'll end badly for everyone.'

Mycroft's grip on his glass would have killed it, had it been a living creature.

'You do not need to concern yourself with this matter anymore. Nothing is escaping my control and no-one has yet been able to read me, you included. You might fancy to have seen through me, but you haven't. That is just wishful thinking and I do not have time to listen to your inanities.'

Sherlock turned to look at him and for the first time his voice lost the mocking tone.

'I am not the one who's doing the wishful thinking, Mycroft,' he stated, deadly serious. 'I might not have been able to understand much of what I saw, but I saw it nonetheless; and if I did, there is the chance that someone else will.'

Mycroft listened to his brother leaving the room, his last words swirling in his head in a loop.

Mycroft hated to admit it, but Sherlock was right. He needed to get a grip on himself.

Staring into the orange flames in the fireplace, he collected his memories, emotions and doubts from the last few months and slowly started packing them away in the darkest place of his mind, where they would not bother him anymore. And if he felt emptier than before when he was finished with it, he decided that it was a price worth paying for the safety of the world he had worked so hard to build.

 

 


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! As always, thanks for reading and kudoing. I'd love to hear what you think of the story; it always helps to improve.  
> Lots of love to my beta, Linnet, who's the most patient girl in this planet.  
> I'm on holiday next week, so there won't be updates until Saturday or Sunday.  
> Enjoy!

_Six months later_

Greg shifted his gaze away from the men working around the gigantic Christmas tree in front of the Houses of Parliament and settled it on the majestic building behind it, trying very hard not to think of Mycroft - not that he really believed the man had an office in there, but lately anything vaguely related to the government reminded Greg of him.

He sighed when he caught himself scanning the upper windows in the ridiculous hope of spotting a familiar silhouette and turned his back on the building, facing Westminster's underground station. With only the smallest hesitation, Greg crossed the road and fetched his oyster card, following the crowd of tourists and londoners into the station.

It was the very beginning of December and the City was preparing itself for the festivities, slowly dressing itself up with fairy lights and pine branches. It was cold, though not as much as Greg would have expected from the season, and the crisp wind had made people cover up with scarves and heavy coats. They all looked a bit like a waddle of penguins padding around the chilly streets of the city. Thinking of penguins brought Greg back to the matter at hand: Mycroft Holmes.  

The reason his mind linked penguins to Mycroft was still to be fully understood; yet it didn't change the reality of the fact that in that precise moment, crushed uncomfortably between a forty-something-year-old with a bad cold and a young lady with a damned edgy bag that was slowly piercing through his stomach, Greg was thinking of the one person he would have loved not to have thoughts about at all.

With a sigh that gained him a weird look from the old lady seated in front of him, Greg stopped trying to distract himself from the matter in his mind and gave it some serious thought.

Mycroft had to be behind it. There was no other way he could have been reinstated so quickly and with the investigation on Sherlock still running. He didn't know how to react to that. He had tried so hard not to think about Mycroft in the last few months, but the man had apparently got under his skin without him knowing. Greg hated himself for letting it happen, but he could not stop himself from seeing him in every man in a three-piece suit or behind every black sedan in the streets. Every time he thought or heard about Sherlock, Mycroft popped up in his head. Christ, he had even dreamt of him once. Maybe twice.

The train came to a stop and Greg stared for a second at the name of the station, then got off on an impulse and waited for the change with the Circle. After a short journey, he was walking away from Ladbroke Grove station and towards the Kensal Green Cemetery.

 

There were flowers resting in front of the gravestone, chrysanthemums and calendulas slowly withering in the cold winter air. Greg was staring at them with unfocused eyes, lost in his thought. He wasn't really sure why he had decided to visit Sherlock's grave in that precise moment of his life; too many memories were connected to that place, and none of them were positive.

He remembered all too well John's expression while he buried his best friend, Mrs. Hudson sobbing as if she had been saying goodbye to her son. He could still see the broken expression on Mycroft's face while he stepped away from his brother's grave and the way it had turned to ice after he had tried to talk to him. He could still sense the stiffness of his body as he tried to offer him some comfort.

Greg stepped closer to the gravestone and brushed away a few pine needles resting on top of it. He let his hand linger for a moment longer against the black marble and he let out a short, painful snort.

'God knows if you’ve left a mess behind you, Sherlock,' he found himself murmuring. 'John won't talk to me, Sally can barely stand the guilt, Anderson resigned because of what he did - I bet you'd be glad to hear that; you always loathed him. And of course there's me, and just the fact that I'm talking to your gravestone is pretty much self-explanatory, and there's Mycroft, who has disappeared from my life but has managed to give me back my job all the same.’ Greg let out a quivering breath. ‘God, Sherlock, what am I supposed to do with him?'

There was no answer to that - not that Greg had expected one. He sighed heavily.

'I miss you, Sherlock,' he whispered, almost surprised he had let the words come out of his mouth. 'And I'd give anything to have you back.'

With a last, pained glance at the gravestone, he turned his back to the grave and left.

He was feeling cold, but he doubted it was because of the weather.

* * *

 

Mycroft was sipping his usual cup of earl grey while going through some documents that needed his signature when a discreet knock on his door made him look up from them.

'Come in,' he said as Anthea stopped in front of his desk. She handed him a folder.

'Sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade's surveillance team has just sent in their weekly report. I thought you might want to have a look at it.'

'Thank you, dear,' said Mycroft nodding. 'I will read though it later. Is that everything?'

'It is, sir.'

'You may go, then.'

'Thank you, sir,' she said, returning to her own office and closing the door behind her.

Mycroft eyed the folder hesitantly, then the documents he had been reading just a few minutes before. They weren't urgent, he considered. He could indulge himself for once. He opened the file and scanned the first page, reading through Greg's movements during the past week, until he reached the early afternoon of that day. The D.I. had taken an unusual route home, stopping at Westminster and then visiting Sherlock's grave. The team had included a couple of photos, one that portrayed him as he looked at the windows of the Houses of Parliament and another while he wiped the gravestone clean. Mycroft would have expected him to be at least pleased by the news of his reinstatement, yet he looked... torn, for lack of a better word. He knew for certain that his job was the thing Lestrade treasured the most, and Mycroft had worked hard behind the scenes to get it back to him as soon as possible; still, the detective looked truly worn out.

Mycroft could not understand why; all the same, he was sieged by the need to fix whatever was wrong for Gregory. It was an impulse he had felt only around Sherlock before - and it wasn't even the first time it had happened. After the funeral, after he had so drastically decided to bury all his doubts and mixed feelings along with the fake Sherlock, he had kept an eye on Lestrade, as well as on John and Mrs. Hudson, and had found himself more and more driven to the detective. He could not help it. No matter how hard he tried, somehow he always ended up checking on him, thinking of him. It was unsettling and infuriating, because for the first time since he could remember, his mind escaped his control. At the beginning, he had been terrified by it; yet after Sherlock had left and the operation had started successfully, he had managed to regain his normal composure and had quickly learnt to hide it, if not to stop it. It was a good compromise, he had found. It gave him the chance to indulge now and then without fearing that someone would see through it and spot his weakness.

Mycroft was still studying closely the file in his hands when his personal mobile pinged. Faintly surprised, he opened the new message, expecting it to be from Sherlock.

It was not.

* * *

 

Greg was fidgeting with his fork, not really hungry despite the steamy box of chinese takeaway resting in his hands. He was sitting on his sofa, distractedly watching the telly. He wouldn’t have been able to name the program that was on, if anyone had asked him.

Weirdly enough, he was thinking of Mycroft Holmes.

He cast a glance at his mobile, then at the telly. Then again to the mobile. He had been doing it for the past half an hour. Finally making up his mind, Greg put down the takeaway box and grabbed his phone. He wavered for a while, trying to come up with the right words, and then tapped a few times on the screen.

Feeling slightly better, he grabbed his food again and eventually started eating.

* * *

 

Mycroft was staring at the message, feeling conflicted.  

_Thank you_ , it read. _I hope things are good on your side, too. You know where to find me if you need me. -GL_

For a moment, Mycroft considered calling him back. It was completely irrational, yet he wanted to hear his voice, feel his presence on the other end of the line. Mycroft remembered all too well what that voice could do to him--what the man as a whole could do to him. He remembered the feeling of another body against his, the intimacy of waking up beside someone else--even if it had been by mistake. One night with Gregory, no matter how intoxicated they had both been, had uncapped a whole set of needs and desires he’d thought to be safely buried in his mind, making him question his entire way of living for long enough that he considered changing it. Of course, it hadn’t happened. Mycroft was not a man who let his emotions decide for him.

Fighting the urge to type back an answer, Mycroft put down his mobile and closed Gregory's file. He fetched his old stack of documents waiting for his signature and went back to work.

And if he saved the text in his personal folder to read it again, it was the smallest - and the biggest - concession he would ever make to his feelings.

Of that, he was sure.

 

 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back! Sorry I didn't update last week, as I said I was on holiday.  
> I do love this chapter quite a lot, so I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did while writing it.   
> As always, many many thanks to my beta, the wonderful Linnet, and to those who read, kudoed and commented. They always say one should write only for himself/herself and not for anyone else, but I've always thought that sharing the experience of bringing a story to life with someone else makes it way a lot better. 
> 
> Finally, a WARNING. This is the chapter that made me set a "Mature" rating for this story. I might have been a bit too cautious while deciding it, but I preferred to be on the safe side. So triggers for graphic depictions of violence, blood and death of a minor character. Really, it shouldn't be too awful a scene to read and I tried to keep it not too detailed, but it _is_ an awful scene, so it can't be too pleasant.

_Ten months later_

Detective Inspector Lestrade thought of himself as a man of simple needs. A house, a job, some food, some sleep and, most of all, a quiet life was everything he wanted. In the last ten months, he had managed fairly well to have them all - with extras. His flat had become more a home and less a house, his job had been demanding and gratifying and maddening as always, he'd eaten more takeaways than he probably should have, slept just enough not to look like a zombie and kept himself out of trouble. He had gone on a few dates, got nothing out of them besides a couple of nice shags, dumped the man or woman he had been going out with and decided he preferred to be alone for a while.

He had also firmly believed that such a decision had nothing to do with a certain Mycroft Holmes.

You see, Detective Inspector Lestrade might once have known a man called Mycroft Holmes; he might even have slept with him, and for a moment, a very brief, unsettling moment, he might have thought that maybe, just maybe, there could be more than that for them.

He had been partially right. There had been more for them; only, it was not the kind of more he had hoped for. There had been more problems, more awkwardness, more embarrassment, more pain, rejection, disappointment and, finally, resignation.

It had taken time to accept that whatever he had naively wished for would never become true; and still Greg thought that the most difficult part had been realizing that everything he had been longing for had been based on very fragile foundations - a few impromptu meetings and a night together, both drunk enough to be only partially aware of what they were doing.

Yet, he had forced himself to face the facts and accept that Mycroft Holmes would never want the same things as he did, and therefore had worked hard to get over him.

Had anyone spared the time to ask Detective Inspector Lestrade, he would have said he had done fairly well - hell, even surprisingly well, given the emotional wreck he had been after Sherlock had died and he had been suspended for almost six months. However, no-one asked and Greg had finally had the chance to move on with his life without having constant reminders of the things that could have been and never were.

Life continued along that pattern until one misty day in October.  

On that day, Sherlock came back from the dead.

On that day, Detective Inspector Lestrade's life started running again - for his life had been nice in the past few months, but it had lacked of all the thrill and quivers that he had enjoyed so much while two certain brothers had still been part of it.

* * *

 

Greg spent half the journey to his flat in a haze, still trying to comprehend the fact that Sherlock was not dead and had just come back from the afterlife to remind him that he still hadn’t learnt his first name. He felt a smile creep into his face and he did nothing to restrain it. It had been long since he had last smiled wholeheartedly, and in that precise moment he felt happier than he had in the past two years - utterly happy and relieved. For a few, brilliant minutes, nothing could make a dent in his bubble of happiness; not the slow traffic in the streets, not the ridiculous song on the radio. Then his emotions started to regain control of themselves and Greg saw one of the many implications of Sherlock’s return. Suddenly, his smile felt much smaller than before.

Greg restrained himself from thinking about it until he got safely into his flat, changed into his pyjamas and fetched himself a beer; after that, he decided that it was time to face up to the small but relevant fact he’d been ignoring, and cautiously let his mind wander in that direction.

Sherlock had a brother. Of course he had. A tall, distinguished, almost certainly lethal brother. On whom Greg had had a crush some months ago. Nothing to worry about. He had completely got over it.

There would be no awkwardness when they met -- if they met; after all, there was no evident reason why Mycroft would want to see him, or talk to him, or even acknowledge his existence in whichever way he would see fit. Of course not. Why would a man like Mycroft Holmes want to waste his time on someone like Greg? Apart from an impromptu shag, obviously.

Still, Greg had got over it and was absolutely ready to behave professionally if the need arose and His Majesty Mycroft Holmes decided to show up at his office or kidnap him to some unknown destination to have a chat on his no-longer-late brother.

He was absolutely ready to tell him to go and shove his damned umbrella up his arse, because Greg was sure he would still treat it better than he had treated him after.

Greg downed half his beer with a noisy gulp and sat down heavily on his sofa. Okay, maybe he hadn't got over it completely - which was stupid, because Mycroft had not been his only one-night stand and Greg hadn't developed an obsession with every other person he had slept with, so he didn’t even have that excuse.

Sighing, Greg rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He was over-thinking the situation. If Mycroft decided to make an appearance in his life again, Greg would deal with the problem in that moment and not a second before. He was done dwelling on what could have happened and why it hadn’t and what he’d done wrong; all he wanted was to feel happy about Sherlock’s return.

Finishing his beer, he rose tiredly from the sofa and padded into his bedroom.

* * *

 

_A few days later_

Mycroft sat in the backseat of his car, looking absentmindedly out the window.

His conversation with Sherlock had been off-putting at best  and, if he had to be completely honest with himself, unsettling.

_I thought you might have found yourself a goldfish._

Mycroft shook his head, trying to ignore the fact that his mind had just conjured a vivid image of a familiar Detective Inspector. Why would he want to find himself someone? He was perfectly fine on his own, as he had made clear to his brother just a few minutes before. He was not lonely. The idea itself was ludicrous.

_How would you know?_

He was not.

_You know where to find me if you need me. - GL_

Well, he certainly did not need him.

Mycroft was a liar by profession; as such, he had managed to lie to himself for almost two years with relative ease.

However,  it seemed his technique did not work on his brother. Sherlock had been peculiarly quick at finding a sore spot and had not hesitated to poke it, which resulted in Mycroft not being able to stop thinking about it. It was like one of those constant aches that simply faded in the background of the everyday life as one got used to them but that came back, suddenly sharp, as soon as someone mentioned them.

Resting his head against the leather seat, Mycroft closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. He was tired, he realised, and Sherlock had been wrong.

He would know.

He did know.

He simply didn’t want to admit it - not even to himself.

 

A few hours later, Mycroft was lying in bed, helplessly awake. He turned around, tossed the duvet aside, covered himself with it again, sighed, turned to the other side, snuggled up to one of the pillows, buried his face in it and discarded it with an exasperated sound only a few moments later. With a stiff movement, he sat up and got out of bed, fetching himself a glass of water in the ensuite bathroom.

Mycroft stared at his reflection in the mirror and barely recognised himself.

His eyes were bloodshot and his complexion was an alarming shade of grey, not to mention his tousled hair. He looked awful. Shaking his head in self-deprecation, he padded back to the main bedroom, laying down on his back and staring at the ceiling. It was late and he was so tired of lying to himself.

He turned his head slowly to the empty side of the king-sized bed and, for the first time in a very long time, he decided to stop pretending.

Mycroft was lonely.

He longed for someone to keep him company, to come home to, to cheer him up and to talk to. He wished for someone who would listen to him because he wanted to and not because he had to; someone who would be there to hug him when he could not sleep and would reassure him when he woke up screaming from a nightmare.

Mycroft wanted someone, and he had a very precise idea of who this someone was.

Of course, he would not act upon it.

Yet for one night, just one night, he would let his mind wander and he would let himself imagine how it would be to have him by his side.

By morning, everything would be sealed up again in its mental cage and Mycroft would just go on with his life as he had done so far.

Only, it didn’t - and he didn’t.

* * *

 

Sherlock was thinking -- which is really an empty statement, since he never stopped doing that. Yet Sherlock was thinking, and in that moment he was getting his teeth into Mycroft. Well, not literally, of course. He was getting his teeth into Mycroft’s problem -- more precisely, the fact that his brother was being ridiculous about his lack of human relations.

That Mycroft believed himself to be superior to any other human being was no surprise to Sherlock; yet he had come back to find him more withdrawn than ever.

Now, Sherlock would not admit it even under torture, but deducing his brother's isolation had made him wish he could do something for him. He had felt the need to say something, to help him and make him feel at least a bit better. He did not want to think too much about the reason he'd been so quick to recognize Mycroft's loneliness in his demeanour, and even less about what made him actually talk to Mycroft about it, yet avoiding it was more difficult than ever.

Two years away from London, always on the run, always on alert, with no-one to talk to and the constant threat of being unmasked hanging over his head. It had been a revolting task to accomplish without any help. Two years he had spent completely alone.  

Sherlock had had to stop lying to himself a couple of months after his fall, on the tenth night he'd spent in Bulgaria. The heat had been almost unbearable in that bunker. Of all the things, that was one of those which he remembered best.

On that night, Sherlock had had to watch an innocent man take his own life in front of his wife in order to save hers.

He had stood silently next to Captain Sergei Buchvarov, one of James Moriarty's many handymen, smiling at him as if he had been appreciating the show, and stared at the couple with cold eyes. The man had sobbed, his hand shaking as he brought the gun to his temple. The woman had almost lost her voice from screaming and crying, her wrists a bloody mess where she had tried to free herself from the heavy chains that kept her tied to the wall. She had short blond hair, Sherlock had helplessly noted.

The thud with which the dead body had hit the ground had scarred Sherlock more than the shot itself. For a second, he had feared he would throw up on Buchvarov's boots and blow his cover straight away.

'Прекрасно!' he had exclaimed instead, after a short laugh, patting the captain on his shoulder and stepping out of the room nonchalantly, his amused smile not leaving his face until he had reached his hotel room.

Sherlock vividly remembered closing the door behind himself, moving to the stinking toilet as if he had been sleepwalking and throwing up everything he'd eaten in the past few days, tears running down his cheeks and the ache in his chest almost impossible to bear.

That night, curled up on an old bed, Sherlock had cried himself to sleep, clutching the one thing he had taken with him from his previous life and wishing that John could be there in person and not only on a piece of crumpled paper.

That night, Sherlock had stopped pretending he didn't need anyone else in his life and had set his priorities straight.

Within twenty-four hours, Sergei Buchvarov had been a dead body lying on the floor of his bedroom, his wrists cut open and a handwritten note on his desk, and Sherlock had been in another country, as determined as he could be to get the entire mission over with in the shortest time possible.

Sighing deeply, Sherlock shook himself out of his reverie and sat up on the sofa, trying to ignore the flow of memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He rubbed his hands over his face and stood at the window, staring at the street below with unfocused eyes. Remembering that moment only made John’s absence more evident and Sherlock’s loneliness more painful.

Yet there was still hope for them; John would see reason sooner or later and everything would go back to normal, he was certain of it. In the meantime, he could always focus on Mycroft - it would be a nice diversion.

A small smile crept on his lips.

He had a goldfish to hook.

 

 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, darlings!   
> Sorry this chapter took so long, life did get in the way after all, and it might keep doing that for a couple of weeks more, which means that the next chapter won't be online before the last week of August. I do apologise, but I am working almost every night of the week and I don't have the time to meet with my beta.  
> Speaking of whom, I have to say a bigger 'thank you' than usual to her, Linnet, who managed to proofread, correct and improve decisively this chapter in one evening of hard work. She's ace and I am going to be eternally grateful for her help.  
> A small clarification for a choice I made while writing this chapter: Anthea makes an appearance in a scene with Mycroft, but I referred to her as Andrea, because that's her real name according to the original [scripts](http://tinanovels.tumblr.com/post/94466881281/ibelieveinmycroft-donttouchsherlock-so-now) and I believe Mycroft would use that name instead of a fake one.  
> As always, many thanks to everyone who spent even just a minute reading this story.

Sherlock stormed into Greg's office and slammed the door shut, making the D.I. jump in his chair.

'Lestrade,' he barked.

Greg blinked in response, still unused to the idea of Sherlock being alive enough to pop up at his office and be a complete prat.

'Close your mouth, you're not a goldfish. I need a case, give me a case,' he demanded, gesturing with his hand at Lestrade's surprised expression just to stop dead, eyes suddenly unfocused, arm still outstretched.

'Oh!'

'Oh what?' asked Greg, completely dumbfounded.

Sherlock's gaze focused again on the man in front of him, scanning him thoroughly. A smile crept on his face and his eyes shone with shrewdness.

' _Goldfish_.'

'Yeah, thanks for that,' sulked Greg, giving the detective an angry look.

'Don't you see?' asked Sherlock excitedly, only to continue without waiting for an answer. 'Of course you don't, that's part of the definition itself. Oh, but it is perfect, you are perfect. You even slept with him - God knows why, but you did! Oh, fantastic, amazing!' He grabbed Greg's arm and pulled until the D.I. stumbled to his feet. Greg turned to watch Sherlock, who had started circling him, assessing him with a predatory gaze.

'What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?' he asked, annoyed.

'I'm looking at you,' he said, the “obviously” unspoken but clearly heard.

'Yes, I see that, but why on earth are you doing that?'

'Because I am evaluating you, of course.'

'Evalu-- _excuse me?'_

'You are not in a relationship, you have enough money and sense not to be interested in his, you are not completely hideous and of course you have already slept with him. I'd say you are the closest to perfection I can find.' Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

'I'd be flattered by the compliment, if there actually had been one and if I knew what you were ranting about,' said Greg sarcastically.

'I'm pairing you off, Lestrade. You should be grateful, you haven't had a shag in ages.'

'Oi!' protested Greg. 'Why the hell are you pairing me off? And who with, for God's sa--' Realisation dawned on him, because, honestly, it was pretty obvious.

'No fucking way, Sherlock. Stay out of this and leave me and your brother alone. Actually, don't even mention me and your brother in the same sentence. No way. Nope. You seem to know everything; you should know that there is no chance in hell that I'm going anywhere near him again.'

Sherlock snorted, crossing his arms and looking at the D.I..

'Why, was he such a bad shag?’

'Sherlock, I swear to God, another word on this topic and you'll have to beg your fucking brother to even hear mention of a case.'

'You are being unreasonable. Why on earth wouldn't you want to get into my brother's pants again? After all, I thought you enjoyed the first--'

'Out!' shouted Lestrade, interrupting, pointing to the door and staring down at Sherlock with a murderous gaze.

'Oh, c'mon, Lestrade, you really should--' Sherlock choked mid-sentence as an enraged Detective Inspector dragged him out of his office by the collar of his coat and slammed the door on his face. '--give him a chance,' he finished, speaking to the closed door.

Well, the situation had just got more complicated.

Sherlock smiled.

He did love a challenge.

* * *

 

Greg slammed the door in Sherlock's face, marched to his chair, sat down on it and promptly hit his desk with his forehead. He let out a groan as he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to forget everything that Sherlock had just said; to forget Sherlock full stop. Not even back for two weeks and he had already gone back to being an infuriating asshole, never able to mind his own business.

Greg rose his head just enough to slam it against the desk again, cursing inwardly.

Just what he needed, he thought miserably. Fucking Sherlock remembering him of Mycroft and now trying to pair him off with him for some unknown reason. Fucking great.

He sat up with a sigh, if only to lean heavily against the backrest of his chair. He didn't want to think about Mycroft and he absolutely didn't want to consider the possibility of getting close to him again. Yet he did, because he was a flawed man and he had just enough self-restraint.

It had been so long ago, but Greg remembered every moment he'd spent with Mycroft that night--the way he smiled, his laugh when they had crumbled to the floor like two idiots, the way he kissed, the heat of his body. Greg found himself smiling fondly at the memories, before he remembered everything that had (not) happened after that night. The way Mycroft had spoken to him at the cemetery, the coldness in his gaze, the disdain in his attitude. He realised that Mycroft had probably been aware even then that his brother was not dead. It only made everything worse. And then the hope, that ridiculous hope that they actually had a chance when Mycroft gave him back his job and the self-loathing that followed that text that never got a reply. The months trying to convince himself that there was no way he and Mycroft could have had something together, that he was better off without him anyway, that he didn't want him in the first place. He had tricked himself into believing that he had got over it and now he was left facing the harsh truth.

He wanted Mycroft.

God knew why, but he still wanted him. Long limbs, insufferable attitude, the whole package. There was no good reason, that was simply the way it was. Greg supposed that that kind of thing eluded logic. It might have been his smile, his clothes, or the way he pronounced just one single damn word, for all Greg knew. It didn't matter. All he knew was that he wanted him and there was no way in hell he was going to have him. Not even with Sherlock interfering-- or because of Sherlock interfering.

With a groan, he hid his face in his hands.

He was in trouble.

* * *

 

Mycroft was walking rapidly down the hall towards his office, speaking to his PA as she typed up his instructions for the day on her mobile, when he suddenly caught sight of Lestrade.

He stopped mid-sentence, gaping at the grey-haired head that had just appeared over the partition screen of his drafter's stall before the man turned around and Mycroft decided that the situation had become truly alarming. He nodded politely at him as he walked away, as he happened to be the Under-Secretary of State for the International Security Strategy and notably not Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, and looked back at Andrea, who was staring at him with a surprised expression.

'My apologies, Andrea. Do call Lady Smallwood for this afternoon's meeting and then go through the last report on the North Korean elections. I will need a recap of that for the meeting. Also, pass on to Frank the data on the Hummingbird mission and tell him to analyse it and send me a preliminary strategy by tomorrow morning.'

She nodded, her eyes back on the screen while she took notes.

'The minister of defence asked for your presence during the video conference with the Americans and we've just been notified a yellow call from our contact in Moscow. Should I forward you the message?'

Mycroft sighed, rubbing his nose with two fingers. He loathed yellow calls.

'Yes, please. And notify it to McFann, too. That will be all for now.'

Andrea nodded to her boss and sat down at her desk, the closest to Mycroft's office. She didn’t spare him a second glance  as  he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

Mycroft stared at the portrait of the Queen over his desk for a few seconds and sighed heavily.

He walked to his chair and sat down, turning the computer on and going through the security protocols in a haze. He was struggling to accept the fact that he had started seeing Gregory in other people. That should not have happened. _Could not_ have happened. He had been very careful at filing away every thought about the Detective Inspector a few days before, after that ridiculously self-indulgent night had left him shaken and hollow in the morning.

Yet such a loss of control over his mind was not unprecedented when related to Gregory and his undefined feelings for him, and Mycroft realized that perhaps he should have foreseen the present situation. It bothered him immensely that he seemed to have no control whatsoever over his mind when it came down to Gregory and Mycroft finally started analysing why that was the case. The answer came to him as a revelation, beautiful in its simplicity.

He didn’t want to.

He didn’t want to file Gregory away, to tuck his emotions under a dusty carpet and forget about them. God, he knew he should do it and he had tried, but he couldn’t force his mind into doing something he himself didn’t wish to work. Mycroft almost laughed. He had been self-sabotaging himself for months. How plebeian and banal. Yet being aware of the cause did not eliminate the problem. He needed some sort of shield from his obsession with Gregory. There was no way it could be satisfied and that meant he needed a way out, something that would make him stop longing for him.

Mycroft tried hard to conjure something about the Detective Inspector that could repulse him and drew a depressing blank. With a sigh, he rubbed his nose with two fingers, trying to will himself into letting Gregory go.

He failed miserably.

Cursing under his breath, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to command his mind to do it. He almost felt his mind laugh back at him. Mycroft felt a tight knot in his stomach and recognized it for what it was.

Fear.

He was scared of his feelings, of his mind and of the overall situation. It was ridiculous. He shouldn’t be scared by something so trivial, so completely unimportant. Only maybe it wasn’t, and Mycroft had still to accept that feeling was not a weakness but a strength.

A low beep distracted him from his reflections and Mycroft looked at his mobile, picking it up and reading the message.

His eyebrows rose in mild surprise.

He tapped a brief answer and pressed the interphone button.

‘Andrea, please notify Chris that I’ll need him to take me to Baker Street at five this afternoon; my brother requires my presence.’

He listened to the short affirmative answer and disconnected the line.

With a sigh, he turned his gaze to the computer screen.

It was time to go back to work.

* * *

 

Sherlock was sitting in his old armchair, slowly sipping a cup of tea that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for him before heading downstairs to see Mr. Chatterjee. He waited patiently for the steps to stop and for a knock on the door to announce his visitor.

'Come in,' he said with a laconic voice.

Mycroft stepped into the room and stood in front of his brother, who only raised an eyebrow and pointed at the empty armchair in front of him.

'I understand you wanted to see me,' began Mycroft, sitting down in one slow movement.

'Indeed I do,' murmured Sherlock, putting down his cup of tea, his eyes never leaving Mycroft.

'And why is that the case, brother dear?'

'I got you a birthday present.'

'My birthday was four months ago, Sherlock,' remarked Mycroft, 'and since when do you bother with presents?'

Sherlock waved away his brother's question as if he deemed it completely unworthy of an answer.

'I got you a belated birthday present, then. I'm sure you'll find it appropriate.'

'Will I?' Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took in his brother's relaxed pose and his badly concealed satisfied smile. He couldn't tell if there had been irony in his brother's voice or if he actually meant what he'd just said.

'Quite so. It should arrive any second--' Heavy, quick steps could be heard from the stairs and in a matter of seconds the door of the flat swung open. '--now.'


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovely ducklings!  
> I'm so glad I can update earlier than expected, of course thanks to my wonderful Beta, Linnet, who decided she had an afternoon to spare and sacrificed it for the sake of this story.  
> Just a small warning for those who have triggers: this is not a fun chapter, I fear, and there is a strong scene which is quite central to the story and occupies most of the chapter. It doesn't involve any common triggers like blood or needles, however I will state them in the End notes for those who want to be sure not to be triggered by this chapter. The only reason I'm not writing them here is that they are spoilerish.  
> That's it, enjoy the chapter and, as always, thanks for reading, commenting, kudoing and bookmarking!

Greg's eyes found Sherlock immediately, looking him over, worriedly. The detective seemed alright and Greg sighed in relief.

'What's wrong, Sherlock? What was that text all about?'

Sherlock smirked and looked away from him. Greg followed his gaze and almost choked on his tongue. Mycroft was staring at him with the most exposed expression he'd ever seen on the man's face and Greg found that he couldn't quite decide what he was feeling in that moment. Numb, he supposed. His mind was surprisingly blank. He couldn't look away.

Mycroft did. He shifted his gaze to his brother and if Greg hadn't known better, he would have said he looked hurt.

'Sherlock,' he murmured, shaking his head ever so slightly. 'Why?'

Sherlock frowned.

'Because he's a goldfish.'

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his nose with two fingers. He had been doing it a lot, lately.

'That's not how it works, Sherlock.' He stood up silently, fetched his umbrella and walked stiffly to the door. He gave a hollow glance to Greg as he passed by him and left without another word.

Greg stood frozen to the spot for several moments after he left.

Sherlock stared pensively at the door. Then he noticed Lestrade still standing right next to it and scolded him.

'Why are you not running after him?' he asked, half confused and half annoyed.

Greg snapped out of his reverie.

'Sherlock, I asked you to stay out of this.'

'But you should be going after him, Lestrade! Why are you still here?' Sherlock sounded annoyed.

'Because, Sherlock, I fucking asked you to stay out of this for a fucking reason, for fuck's sake.'

Greg was starting to feel a bit more than annoyed.

'As if I've ever done what you told me to.'

'Of fucking course,' muttered Lestrade through gritted teeth, turning on his heels and leaving the flat as quickly as he could. He was feeling the urgent need to punch Sherlock right in the face, and he didn't really want to cope with the consequences of doing so at that moment.

He stood on the pavement, fuming and looking around for a familiar silhouette without really being aware of doing it. Rummaging in his pockets, he took out a cigarette and lit it angrily, inhaling deeply.

Fucking Sherlock, he thought walking toward his flat. Fucking Sherlock who could never let go of anything and ended up messing around with other people's lives without any decency.

He had no right to interfere; he did not know what happened between Mycroft and him, he had no idea of what it felt like and how hard it had been for Greg. He had no fucking right. Yet he had to pry into their lives and now Greg could not stop thinking of Mycroft's expression when he had seen him and of his look when he had left the flat. He had seemed so defeated, so completely helpless. It made Greg ache. It brought him back to that day when Mycroft had looked so lost at the cemetery. He wondered if Mycroft's reaction would have been the same as that day, had Greg tried to talk to him. He found that it really didn't matter; he still wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be fine and that he was there to help him if he'd only let him and Greg felt so truly, awfully miserable. For once, he didn't try to repress it.

Eventually, Greg got to his flat and collapsed tiredly on his sofa. After a few moments, he hid his face in his hands.

* * *

 

Lulled by the smooth movement of the car racing through the streets of London, Mycroft was remembering the first time he went swimming in the ocean after years and years of practising in a pool. His parents had decided that it was finally time for a long summer vacation and had taken their children to Casablanca for a few weeks. Mycroft had been ten and Sherlock only three at the time. He remembered vividly the boldness with which he had run into the water, ignoring his mother’s words, confident he would be able to stay afloat, and the sudden panic that had overwhelmed him when he had realised that no-one had ever taught him how to deal with the waves. He remembered how he had gone limp after putting up a useless fight not to be dragged under the water, and how he had thought he was going to drown, before his mother had managed to drag him out of the ocean. He had coughed and clutched his hands to his chest, gasping for air and crying without even noticing the tears running down his chubby cheeks.

It was his worst memory and Mycroft was reliving it fully, the feeling of the water surrounding him and dragging him under very distinct in his chest, even though he was safe in his town car and there was no water at all that could engulf him in its deathly embrace. Yet Mycroft was drowning and he was yearning for someone to rescue him. He clutched at his chest, tears streaming down his face, his unfocused eyes still fixed on the expression Gregory had made when he had noticed that Mycroft was in the room; on the surprise, the panic, the strain he had read so easily on his face.

It was too much and it was crushing him, and Mycroft gave up fighting and let himself be dragged under. He knew no-one would grab his arm and rescue him this time.

Then his mobile rang.

Mycroft inhaled harshly, over-aware of the air flowing through his lungs. He relaxed his fingers, still clutching at his chest, and tried to bring his breathing under control. Ragged pants left his mouth while his mobile kept ringing in his pocket. His cheeks felt wet and Mycroft touched them, feeling the trace of tears he hadn’t been aware of spilling. He felt a shiver run through his spine and he leaned heavily against the leather seat, closing his eyes. He felt drained. His mobile wouldn’t stop ringing. Mycroft took it out of his pocket tiredly and sighed when he read the number on the screen. He didn’t want to answer but he was well aware that the caller wouldn’t give up anytime soon. He pressed the green button.

‘Mycroft Holmes.’ Mycroft congratulated himself for being able to flatten his voice even in a moment like that.

‘Mycroft, what the hell have you done?’ Sherlock’s voice all but shouted in his ear. Mycroft felt his face twist in a grimace.

‘I have done many things, Sherlock. You will need to be a tad more precise.’

‘Don’t play dumb, Mycroft, it doesn’t suit you. Why did you react like that when you saw Lestrade? And why did _he_ react like that?’

Mycroft closed his eyes. He was in no condition to explain himself to his brother. To be completely honest, he wasn’t sure he knew how to explain what happened even to himself.

‘I thought _you_ were the detective, brother mine. Do what you do best and deduce it.’ He hung up before Sherlock could reply and went back to keeping his breathing under control.

It had been years since the last time he had had a panic attack, but Mycroft hadn’t forgotten the best way to deal with their aftermaths. He kept breathing deeply, closing his eyes and forcing his body to relax, one muscle at time. It took him several minutes to regain complete composure, but he finally got there. He let out one last shaky breath and let a shiver shake his body, then sat up in his usual stiff position and took out his handkerchief, padding his cheeks to remove any sign of tears and sweat. He slowly rebuilt his emotionless expression and finally felt a bit in control of himself again.

He refrained from thinking about what had happened until his driver stopped the car in front of his house and Mycroft closed the main door behind himself, finally alone. He retreated to his study and fetched himself a glass of whiskey.

He needed to think.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Triggers for drowning and panic attacks.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darlings, this is the second to last chapter and I'm starting to get emotional.   
> Thank you for reading, commenting, kudoing and bookmarking, it is a true pleasure to see you like the story. And, of course, a gigantic thank you to my Beta, Linnet, who never fails to amaze me with her incredibly sharp critical skills and overwhelming kindness. (So sorry, dear, I know I shouldn't start a sentence with 'and', but it is just too tempting!)

Behind the curtained windows of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock was staring at his mobile with a dazzled expression. Mycroft's words were still swirling in his mind, echoing in the ample rooms of his mind palace. He had obviously miscalculated something and being aware of that was making him restless and eager to understand his mistake. He spun around with an abrupt move and threw his mobile on the sofa carelessly, sitting down on his armchair and tapping his fingers on the armrests, his eyes closed.

It was obvious to him that his brother and Lestrade shared some sort of interest for each other; it was as clear to him as it had been the day of his funeral, when he had seen them argue from behind that tree.

Ah.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he rose from his armchair, starting to pace around the room. They had had a row at the graveyard. Sherlock had stocked that piece of information in his mind palace, of course, but for some reason he had overlooked it, too focused on the fact that Lestrade was a good match for his brother.

He came to a halt in front of the fireplace and stared into the mirror above it for a few seconds, then closed his eyes again and exhaled. He walked down the familiar stairs of his mind palace and opened the door that let him into Mycroft's office, the place where he normally stocked all the information about his brother he wished to retain. He walked to the armchair and sat down. When he turned to his right, Mycroft was sitting there, looking vaguely sick and weirdly defenseless.

‘What happened?’ Sherlock asked him.

‘Nothing happened,’ snapped Mycroft. ‘Apart from you being a selfish idiot.’

‘So this has nothing to do with your conversation with Lestrade or with you having sex with him, I gather.’

‘Of course not. Why should that be of any importance in this matter?’

‘Why indeed. Yet, I have to admit, brother mine, you surprised me. I never thought you maintained an interest in such lousy activities.’

‘I don’t,’ spat Mycroft.

‘The evidence tells the opposite, I fear. Even though I don’t really understand why you chose Lestrade. Of course, he is not the most hideous man I know, yet I must confess I’m quite at a loss of why you picked him, of all people.’

‘I haven’t picked anyone, brother mine. It happened once and will not again.' Mycroft's voice faded and Sherlock opened his eyes, finding himself in his flat once again.

Mycroft's words echoed in his mind one last time.

_It happened once and will not again._

Sherlock sighed. He could see now what must have happened two years ago. He remembered vividly the way his brother's control had faltered, how he had looked torn and haunted after the funeral. At the time, he had thought that Mycroft was just strained by everything he had to do in order to ensure Sherlock would come out alive from his confrontation with Moriarty, and he had seen his brother’s involvement with Lestrade as a mere diversion. He had teased his brother about it, because that was what younger siblings did, but he had honestly thought nothing more of it.

Quite clearly, he had been mistaken, even though he could argue that he had not been at his best that day. Anyway, now that he had more data to work with, he seemed to be close to unravelling the knot.

Regardless of what Mycroft said, Sherlock knew his brother well. He could imagine that Mycroft had found himself somehow attracted to Lestrade in a way that he hadn’t anticipated, and that he had consequently tried to cut him out of his life. Mycroft had worked hard to build his own world, even Sherlock could admit that, and he was not going to let someone unbalance it the way Lestrade could potentially do. Not unless the advantages were greater than the disadvantages, which Mycroft must have decided was not the case.

It was not surprising; Mycroft had never showed any desire for companionship or romance and he had made it clear more than once that he had a very low opinion of something as trivial as sentiment. To find himself feeling for another person must have been highly unsettling. It had been for Sherlock, and he was in no way as self-contained as his brother was. Theoretically, he could understand and appreciate the logic behind Mycroft’s actions. However, Sherlock had learnt at his own expense that sometimes logic was not the right means to deal with a situation, particularly when said situation revolved around someone you cared for. Mycroft had been resolute in saying that what had happened between him and Lestrade was not going to happen again, but he had been too quick in waving it off as nothing of importance. He wouldn’t have struggled that way to keep Lestrade away and out of his mind, nor would he have fought so hard to keep control over himself, if it actually had been that unimportant.

No, Sherlock was sure his brother had fallen for the Detective Inspector and for once he was determined to make things right for him.

After all, he owed him.

A fall for a fall -- and if they were very, very lucky, this time they might also land on soft ground.

* * *

 

Greg was lying on his sofa with his hands on his face, determined to hide from the world as much as possible. It didn’t matter that his flat was empty and that no-one could see him in that state, he still wanted to disappear as quickly as humanly possible and never come back to the harsh reality of things. For a few seconds, he entertained the hope that his sofa would swallow him whole and digest him, putting an end to his misery. However, the piece of furniture showed no signs of being even slightly hungry for human flesh and stayed depressingly still, quite content with his life as an inanimate object.

Greg sighed and pressed his hands harder against his face, letting out a muffled, frustrated noise.   
He had been such an idiot, he thought. He had made the most common mistake a cop could ever make: he had believed that he had  solved the case without enough evidence to support his solution, and had been blinded by his own certainty.

Greg had been absolutely sure Mycroft was not interested in him; he had gone through the few times they’d met in his mind, thinking over the way the elder Holmes had behaved with him, and he had drawn the most logical conclusion: Mycroft didn’t wish for anything to happen between them, regardless of that one night when things had got out of hand.

Admittedly, Greg could not blame himself completely, because anyone else would have come to the same conclusion, had they been in his shoes. Mycroft had done everything by the book, behaving in just the right way to make Greg believe he was not a welcome presence in his life, showing his cold, unreachable façade every time it was necessary to do so.

However, Greg should have known better than to believe whatever superficial signal Mycroft had been sending him. Greg knew all too well that Mycroft was a master in deception; he should have paid closer attention.

If he had, he might have come to a completely different conclusion.

If he had, he might have spared himself two pitiful years.

Instead, it had taken a very nosy Sherlock and a very unprepared Mycroft to make him see the proverbial light and start questioning his judgement.

Greg didn’t know what to do, or what to believe. He didn’t trust himself on that matter anymore. He had been so sure about Mycroft’s lack of interest in him that he could not trust himself to have got it right this time.

The only thing he was sure about was that Mycroft had not been completely indifferent towards him; more, he couldn’t say.

He could not understand what he had seen at Sherlock’s, the pain and sorrow in Mycroft’s eyes as he’d looked at him. His instinct was telling him that Mycroft had feelings for him and that he had been hiding them for a long time, but his mind struggled to accept that possibility, suggesting a stream of alternatives to explain what he had witnessed. Mycroft could just have been very displeased or annoyed at his presence, he might have been disappointed in Sherlock for having behaved like a three-year-old child, he might have recalled something highly unpleasant the moment he’d seen Greg.

No, he could not trust himself on this matter anymore.

Anyway, even if Mycroft truly had feelings for him, he had gone to great lengths to hide them and Greg could not see Mycroft changing his attitude about that any time soon.

Either way, the possibility of things being different for Greg were very slim, if not nonexistent.

With a final, resigned sigh, Greg stood and went to the kitchen. He fetched himself a glass of water, stared at it for a few seconds, and dumped it in the sink. Then he reached for the scotch.

If there ever was a right time to have a glass of that, it was then.

* * *

 

Mycroft was sitting in his favourite armchair in his study, staring at the orange flames crackling in the fireplace. It was his favourite place to think, the most intimate spot in his house and the one he felt safest in.

A soft meow came from his side and Mycroft moved his arms from his lap, letting Merida jump gracefully on his knees. The cat settled against his belly and closed her eyes, purring as Mycroft threaded his fingers through her fluffy fur.

It was a soothing gesture, and Mycroft found himself relaxing slightly. He looked down at the orange cat and almost smiled. She had been a stray cat before she’d found a way into Mycroft’s garden and had decided that it would do as her new permanent residence.

Mycroft’s staff had tried to remove her from the garden, but she’d kept finding new ways in and eventually Mycroft had grown quite fond of her stubbornness. She reminded him of his brother, and a few months before Sherlock came back, he’d decided to keep her. Anyway, she was an independent creature and he found that he quite enjoyed the idea of another living creature in the house, no matter how silent she was. Some days, she would just pad into the room Mycroft was in, meow politely and wait for the man to let her settle in his lap and start petting her. Mycroft had begun to think that she only saw him as her personal groomer, and the thought never failed to amuse him.

Mycroft scratched her behind her ears and she purred louder, flattening her ears a bit and leaning against his touch. Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes and resting his head against the backrest of the armchair. He needed to decide what to do about Gregory.

After Sherlock’s ill-planned interference, there was little doubt that the detective inspector had seen through him and understood his actions for what they really were--a deceit, a mask to hide what lay beneath his cold expression and his contemptuous attitude.

Mycroft supposed he should feel annoyed or disappointed, maybe. At himself for being caught off-guard, at Sherlock for being unable to let anything go, at Gregory for being so good at reading him. However, Mycroft was experiencing the most unforeseen of emotions: he was feeling relieved.

Now he could not go back to pretending he was completely indifferent to Lestrade. He had just two possibilities: he could either face the man and see what would come out of it or disappear from his life completely.

For a few moments, Mycroft let himself imagine how Gregory would react to a declaration of sorts. Would he be flattered? Or repulsed? Embarrassed, maybe?

Mycroft truly didn’t know, and he hated not knowing. He also didn’t know how to start describing how he was feeling towards Gregory, or why he was feeling something. He didn’t know when it had begun or why. He had no explanation whatsoever, no matter how long he’d thought about it, and it was the most unsettling thing he’d ever had to experience.

No, thought Mycroft with a resigned sigh, he could not just pop up at Gregory’s house and stammer some kind of awkward apology and an even more awkward explanation. Gregory would most likely slam the door in his face. Mycroft would understand that. He knew he’d been hard on him and there was only so much a man could forgive. Mycroft was pretty sure he’d reached the limit. Not to mention that even if Gregory could actually accept his apologies, he might simply not be interested anymore. That he once had been had been absolutely clear to Mycroft, but a lot of time had passed since then. The Detective Inspector would have had every right to have moved on.

No, thought Mycroft again, it was much better if he backed off and let Gregory live his life without his silent shadow following him everywhere. It was the safest choice, and therefore the best for them both.

He would get over the misery he was feeling and he would move on, too. He would find a way. Starting from tomorrow, probably. For now he would just let himself feel it. It could turn out to be useful to remember such a harsh pain.

Mycroft frowned when a paw crawled across his chest, followed quickly by another one. He cracked an eye open and saw Merida stretching over him, her piercing eyes staring deeply at him. She leaned forward slowly and poked him with her wet nose, meowing softly.

Mycroft smiled sadly and caressed her. She was a smart creature, but there was very little she could do to alleviate his pain.

It was better than nothing, anyway.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it is weird, sad and relieving at the same time, but that's it. This is the last chapter, ducklings. I'm not sure whether I'm happy to have finished it or sad it is already over. One way or another, it was a great personal achievement to have completed a long story in a language which is not my mother tongue, so thank you to anyone who stuck with the story until the end and, of course, to my incredibly talented Beta, Linnet, who gave the story more than I could have ever hoped for.  
> You can find the link to her profile in the first chapter; she's absolutely genius, so if you are looking for a beta go and ask her!  
> Finally, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://tinanovels.tumblr.com/) if you want to contact me for anything.  
> Again, thanks for reading.  
> Enjoy the last chapter!

Life went on, the way it always does when you are in pain but you can do nothing about it.

Greg got up early, went to work, drank some awful coffee and shared a few words with his colleagues. Mycroft got up early, went to work, drank some decent coffee and shared a few well-rehearsed words with his colleagues. They both stayed overtime. When they reached the highest level of exhaustion, they wrapped up whatever documents they were reading, switched off the lights and headed home with only the smallest of nods to the very few people still in the building.

They got out of their cars, walked tiredly to their doors and dragged themselves to bed, too tired even to think about each other. Then they lay in bed, helplessly awake.

You see, neither Greg nor Mycroft were having a good time.   
They were both struggling to reconcile what they knew with what they felt and they were both being completely, utterly blind.

Or maybe they just didn’t want to open their eyes, because, you see, anyone who had the chance to see them together could have told you what they were refusing so hard to acknowledge. Anyone who had the pleasure (or one might argue the misfortune) of knowing them could have easily pointed out how they were both longing for each other while denying it with all their heart. One could almost see them stretch their arms towards each other while they kept their backs turned.

Why they were doing it only they knew. One could guess; others might even have very plausible theories, but in the end it came all down to them and to what they wanted and to what they allowed themselves to want. Which wasn’t a lot, for sure.

Yet they struggled with life and they carried on, and a month came and went from that day that was branded it their memories as the one that decided the path their lives would follow from that moment onwards.

The paths they chose were diverging, yet you all know how the saying goes: all roads lead to Rome.

More specifically, the Hotel Roma, an old building just behind the British Museum.

How they got there should come to you as a complete surprise.

 

Alright, you smart readers, you win.

Of course it was Sherlock.

* * *

 

It was nearly nine p.m. when Mycroft got the call.

His mobile started vibrating and he raised an eyebrow as he read the caller ID. He answered with a sigh.

‘What do you want, Sherlock?’

‘He’s back,’ deadpanned Sherlock’s voice. ‘Moriarty’s back. Meet me at the Hotel Roma in an hour. Room 404.’

Mycroft sat frozen for a minute, unable to believe what he’d just heard, then he jumped into action. With a few taps on his mobile he called his driver and got into the car. The Hotel Roma was in Bloomsbury; he would get there just in time.

* * *

 

Greg’s mobile chimed while he was going through the evidence for the Waters case, desperate to find a way to prove they were guilty of several robberies in the past month.

 

_Found a major lead on the Waters case._   
_Hotel Roma. Room 404. 10 p.m._   
_Look out of the window on the left._  
 _Don’t be late.  
_ _\- SH_

 

Greg looked at the clock on the wall and swore. If he was very, very quick and very, very lucky he could get there just in time.

* * *

 

Greg jumped out of the car and almost ran into the old hotel, looking for someone to direct him to the right room.

The reception was empty, all the lights out, and Greg swore under his breath, spotting the stairs on the far corner of the small room. He looked at the clock behind the big desk and swore again. He was already late.

He ran up the stairs in a hurry, praying that the hotel used the same system of numbers of any other, and reached the fourth floor. Room 404 was right at the end of the corridor, the golden numbers engraved into the door almost erased by time.

Greg reached it with a few long strides and waited for any sound from inside the room.

None came.

Hoping fervently that he wasn’t walking into a trap, Greg opened the door and stepped inside.

What happened next was all too quick for Greg to react.

Someone shoved him from behind and he stumbled further into the room, barely managing not to fall on his nose.

Then the door clicked shut and the key was loudly turned.

Greg blinked for a second, then slammed his fist on the door and swore loudly.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

‘Talk to him, Lestrade. I’m sure together you’ll find a way out.’ That was Sherlock’s voice. Greg went from worried to enraged in half a second.

‘Sherlock, I swear to God I’m going to put that grave of yours to good use if you don’t let me out right now,’ he growled menacingly to the door.

‘Talk to him, Lestrade. It’s about time you do.’

Greg heard Sherlock walk away from the door and swore, slamming his fist against the door again.

‘Sherlock!’ he shouted one last time. He got no answer.

Greg sighed angrily and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He needed to get out of there.

Talk to him, Sherlock had just said.

_Talk to him._

Greg turned with a feel of dread in his gut.

There was someone else in the room -- and that someone was apparently frozen on the spot next to the window on the left, his eyes fixed on Greg as if he was the biggest threat he’d ever had to face in his life.

Greg felt the air leave his lungs all of a sudden, as if he’d been hit on the chest with something heavy.

‘Mycroft,’ he murmured. Greg thought he sounded as if an invisible dwarf had been strangling him for the past two hours, not enough to kill him but enough to make him sound like a moron.

Mycroft opened his mouth, seemed to be looking for words for a few seconds, then closed it.

Then he opened it again.

‘I am so sorry, Detective Inspector,’ he said quickly, averting his eyes, ‘If  I’d known what my brother was up to I would never have come. I didn’t intend for you to get stuck in this situation.’ He took out his mobile and started tapping on the screen. ‘Let me set this straight, my assistant can be here in a minute, and then...’ Mycroft’s voice faded in astonishment. ‘Oh, he didn’t.’ He muttered.

‘He didn’t what?’ asked Greg, dreading the answer.

‘I can’t believe it,’ Mycroft went on, ignoring the question.

‘Mycroft. What did he do?’ repeated Greg, a bit more forcefully.

Mycroft stopped tapping on his mobile and looked at Greg.

‘He isolated the room. There’s no signal.’

‘What?’

‘There’s no signal. We can’t contact anyone. We are truly locked in.’

Greg looked at him as if he were speaking another language.

‘But that’s impossible.’ He took out his own mobile and looked at the small “no network” icon.

‘How the hell did he do this?’ asked Greg.

‘I expect he--’ Greg raised a finger, effectively silencing Mycroft, who stared at him, surprised by his own reaction to Greg’s gesture.

‘I wasn’t really asking for an explanation, Mycroft.’ He sighed. ‘Okay. How do we get out?’

Mycroft looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Greg stared back.

‘Yes, _now_ I am asking for an explanation.’

‘We don’t.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean we can’t get out, unless you have something to pick the lock with or you feel like trying to knock the door down, which I wouldn’t suggest you do.’

‘Why not? Do you want to be stuck here until your brother decides he’s had enough fun for today?’

‘Because I can see from here that he’s changed the lock and the hinges, and I suspect he’s reinforced the shutter too.’

Greg sighed.

‘Alright. So what do we do?’

Mycroft looked at his watch.

‘My security team has orders to check on me in fifty-four minutes. We’ll just have to wait.’

Greg stared at him.

‘For an hour? In the same room?’

Mycroft stared at him, trying not to look hurt.

‘I can’t see any alternatives, I’m sorry you have to stand my presence for so long. I assure I’ll do my best not to bother you.’

‘What?’

‘I said that I’m not going to bother you and I am sorry you have to stand my presence.’

‘I… that was not what I meant,’ muttered Greg, averting his eyes. ‘I thought you didn’t want to be in the same room with me, not the other way around.’

Mycroft sighed, his shoulders dropping a bit.

‘Yes, I suppose I can’t blame you for believing it. I did give you enough proof of that, didn’t I?’

Greg snorted ironically.

‘Are we really having this conversation? Because I think I need to sit down if we are.’

Mycroft looked at him carefully, assessing.

‘I think it is about time, Gregory.’

Greg stared back for a while and Mycroft let himself be examined, trying not to shield every single drop of emotion he felt. It was not easy to do it willingly, yet it seemed the effort had been acknowledged, because Greg stepped away from the door, walked around the bed that was between them and sat on its edge, facing him.

‘Alright.’ He hesitated, not sure how to go on. He finally settled for the one question that had tormented him for years. ‘Why?’

Mycroft didn’t answer straight away, and Greg wondered if he’d actually understood what he was asking. He was about to add something when Mycroft spoke.

‘Because it was a risk I couldn’t take.’

Mycroft's face was hidden in shadow, lit only by the pale light from the street lamps filtering through the windows. Greg could barely make out his profile; his expression was indecipherable. Greg frowned.

‘You mean that _I_ was a risk you couldn’t take.’

Mycroft sighed so softly that Greg would have missed it if he hadn't been paying close attention to the man.

'You weren't part of my equation and I couldn't allow myself to add another variable to it.'

'And do you think this justifies the way you treated me?' Greg shook his head. 'You know what? I get it, Mycroft. And I would have got it even back then. People have priorities and it was clear a relationship wasn't one of yours. But you could have told me that clearly, instead of treating me like I personally insulted you with my mere presence. I would have understood and I would have moved on. Instead you decided to cut me out completely and I've spent the last two years dwelling on what it was that I did so wrong that made it go so bad so quickly.'

Mycroft stared at Greg as if it was the first time he actually saw him. He found himself looking for words, for something to say that could explain why he'd thought that what he'd done was the best option for them--for Gregory. He wanted to explain that he'd thought that it would be easier for both of them to think they hated each other than to know he'd given up on something that had barely started because he didn't want to risk anything. He could see now what it had all really been about, what was the true reason he'd acted as he did. He'd just been too cowardly to face something he couldn't control or foresee, so he'd kept is as far away from him as he could.

It had all been a huge mistake, and deep down Mycroft had been aware of that all along. Yet he couldn't bring himself to admit it. Not out loud, not in front of Gregory. And he wanted so much to reach out for him, to lean against him for support, to ask for forgiveness and a second chance, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

'Would you back off right now, if I asked you to?' he said instead, staring at some indefinite point behind Gregory's ear, grateful for the years of training that had primed his voice into a flat tone. He needed to let him go. He needed to let him have a happy life, and he needed to disappear completely in order to do so.

Greg was staring at him, his eyes glowing in the dim light as if they'd been reading through him the whole time.

Please say yes, he thought. Say yes and let us both go.

'Would you really ask me to, if you knew I'd say yes?' Greg said instead, raising his chin just a bit in defiance. His eyes met Mycroft's with decision, daring him to answer truthfully.

And Mycroft could not lie anymore.

'No,' he whispered lowering his head, defeated. He couldn't bear to see the pity, maybe even the anger, in Greg's face. Instead, he was startled by a gentle hand slowly caressing his cheek before Greg nudged his chin, making Mycroft meet his eyes again.

They were so, so close. He could feel his heat; he thought he could sense his pulse through those few inches of skin that were touching him.

'Why?' murmured Greg, and Mycroft wondered if he really didn't know or if he only wanted to hear it out loud.

'Because I can't.' And once he said it out loud, he finally accepted it. All those months spent wondering how to keep him away, all those nights he’d spent hopelessly awake trying to come up with convincing reasons why he had to let him be, had to pretend to hate him or despise him or whatever he was trying to make it look like, only to come to this exact moment and realise that there had never been anything he could do, because he couldn’t let him go, because Greg had somehow carved himself a space in Mycroft’s heart and there was no plaster in the world he could fill that space with. And it made him feel vulnerable and different, but for the first time Mycroft thought that maybe it was a good kind of different, and that if he couldn’t make it--him--go away, then he might as well try to make the most out of the situation.

'God knows I tried, but I can't. I'm just--' Mycroft struggled to find words that could express what he was feeling, even though  he doubted they existed. 'You've grown on me like the high tide, Gregory, slow and silent, until I found I couldn't stay afloat and I was drowning in you. I wasn't paying close enough attention and it happened anyway, and I can't explain it and it scares me, Gregory, it scares me like nothing else ever has.

‘Because I wonder what will happen when the low tide will come back and you'll leave me.'

Greg, for a short, terrible moment considered punching Mycroft right in the face, just to make him feel just a fraction of the pain he’d inflicted him in the past few years, but it was a very short moment, and it disappeared, almost as if it had never been there. He had good reason to be angry at Mycroft, but how could he be, how could he possibly, when the man he was--oh God--the man he was in love with was baring his soul in front of him as if it was the most painful task he’d ever had to endure? He had always known that Mycroft was not a man of sentiment, he had been ready to accept that even at the beginning of their relationship, and to witness him actively putting effort into explaining himself, into saving, or rescuing, or maybe starting anew whatever they had was possibly the best gift Greg had ever received. He wondered if he was about to cry out of sheer relief.

Mycroft turned away, unable to face Gregory. He'd said it, against his better judgement, against what his mind had told him to do, and now he couldn't take it back. There was nothing more he could do.

Then a hand leaned on his arm and squeezed it slightly.

'Mycroft,' murmured Greg, and he couldn't quite make out the tone of his voice. 'Mycroft, please, look at me.'

He just stood there, unable to move a muscle.

'Mycroft.' The grip on his arm tightened and he found himself turning, as that hand was suggesting he do.

Gregory's eyes were soft, and worried, and regretful, and so many other things, but most of all they were overwhelming, and Mycroft let himself get lost in them, let himself find relief and comfort in the last person he thought would be giving him that.

'I’m no poet, Mycroft. I am a practical man, and I live and talk like one, but I understand what you are trying to say. It's what I've been feeling for the last two years and it has almost driven me mad. But Mycroft, you know how to stay afloat. We all do, if we don't let ourselves get caught by fear. That's what dragged you down, and that's what was bringing me down, too. And you’re scared that I'll leave, and that it'll hurt, and I can’t promise you it won’t happen, but I’ll try as hard as I can not to. That, I will promise.'

Mycroft looked down at the hand still gripping his arm, then at the man standing in front of him, so close he could count his eyelashes, and finally realised it: Greg was the high tide and he would always come back. In the meantime, he will just have to learn how to swim.

'Will you forgive me for what I've done to you, Gregory?'

Greg sighed and let go of Mycroft's arm.

'We all make mistakes, now and then, and you are human, even if you try to hide it as much as you possibly can. It will take time, Mycroft, and it'll come out now and then, but being with you is what I've been craving for the past two years. You can think I'm biased, but I stand up for what I've just said. I will forgive you eventually, if you'll let me.'

Mycroft let out a shaky breath and felt like a heavy weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He had a thought, and he smiled warily at Greg.

'I might have just learnt how to stay afloat, Gregory.' He said, and then his smile widened as he watched Greg’s expression grow confused at first and then resigned.

‘You know, just when I thought I had you all figured out, you make me realise I’ll never actually understand how your mind works.’

And they found themselves laughing, and there was relief, and there was amusement, and a bit of disbelief, because it had been all so unexpected but it still felt so right; but most of all there was sheer joy, and the awareness of not being alone anymore, and of having a new, better life unravelling ahead of you, and someone to discover it with you.

In the end, even the laughter faded, and they just stood there, looking at each other, marvelling that it was really happening and wondering what they'd done to deserve such happiness.

And finally, Greg took a step closer to Mycroft, and Mycroft one closer to Greg, and their arms circled around them, and they looked into each other's eyes for a bit longer, and then Mycroft moved one hand to Gregory's cheek and Greg leaned against it and let himself be dragged into the sweetest kiss he'd ever had.

They both smiled against each other's lips.

And there was no better feeling in the world.

 


End file.
